


Perpetual

by Tdinttwrt



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tdinttwrt/pseuds/Tdinttwrt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What, in all of time and space, could finally persuade the Doctor to kiss his Rose?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cupid's Arrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some silly fun at the Fair and Flea Market for Rose and Ten, followed by a cricket match where Rose is slimed by an alien love potion.

Cupid’s Arrow

Rose rested her head on his brown pinstriped shoulder, as they sat in the sunshine, with dappling shade from the fragrant flowering trees overhead. Pretty, those trees, if you ignored the deadly three-foot spikes along their limbs. No time lines to fix, no one to save. They could just sit here and peer up at fluffy clouds in the purple sky. She quietly alien-watched, as the milling crowds enjoyed the fair; bickering families, hormone-blissed lovers, friends cracking jokes. Almost all of them busy greedily eating things off a stick.

“Glad we gave trouble a holiday,” she said. “S’peaceful.”

A vendor with mounds of iridescent pink and blue fluffy stuff on a stick wandered by. She picked up her head, ready to excitedly call out for what she hoped was candyfloss.

He stopped her, warning, “You don’t want that.”

“Why not?”

“Spun from crickets. Well, what passes for crickets here.”

“1,001 foods on a stick, and haven’t seen one I can stomach yet,” she complained.

“You haven’t been but to the first fifty or so booths,” he admonished.

“Sorry, but the 1,001st Annual 1,001 Foods on a Stick Festival hasn’t been the highlight of my year, after all.”

“C’mon, I know just the thing. Flea market nearby, ‘1,001 Booths of Fantastic Stuff from Around the Galaxy!’ That’s what the advert said, they were handing out flyers over by the Snadge-Pudding-on-a-Stick.” He stood and held out a hand to hoist her to her feet. “I know there’s a transmat platform somewhere nearby that can take us to it.” He gazed around for it. “There it is. Shop till we drop!”

“Think I’m already about to drop, but I’m game. Though, what’s with there being 1,001 of everything on this planet?”

“1,001 is a fine number, Rose. For one thing, it’s sphenic, the product of three positive primes, and it’s the twenty-sixth pentagonal number, oh, and it’s a palindrome."

"In other words, good marketing,” Rose concluded, watching him smile. She could tell he felt rather impressive just now, and that always made him happy.

They stepped onto the small transmat port and punched up the command for the flea market on the pad provided.

Arriving they stepped off and saw stretching to the horizon row after row of canvas-tented stalls and open tables, brimming with stuff and shoppers of every description.

"Ooo," he exclaimed excitedly, spying something a few dozen yards down one of the rows, and held out his hand to pull her off to it.

Stopping in front of the booth, Rose saw what had him suddenly transfixed: stacks of battered, greenish-colored pots and pans.

"Gone a bit moldy, haven't they?" she commented.

"Shang dynasty bronzes, Rose!" he exclaimed, grinning like a boy at Christmas. "I was thinking the Tardis could use a little "shin-was-reee." He said it like it was the sexiest thing a Tardis could have. "Chinoiserie," he repeated, making his eyebrows dance.

The stall’s vendor rose from a stool and Rose watched him (her?) shuffle towards them, his (her?) eyes (all six) widening in what Rose supposed was a hopeful smile.

"Hello," she greeted it. It bowed.

The Doctor reverently traced his fingers along the piles of patinated vessels. "The rarest of artifacts from Earth's Bronze Age, Rose, cast by clever artisans along the banks of the mighty Yellow River, the river they called the Hwang Ho, used for offering wine to the gods of rain." He hefted up a heavily decorated three-footed cauldron, examining its motifs more closely, and cooed to it softly, "I once stubbed my toe along the Hwang Ho..."

Stretching the tip of his tongue out to it, he lightly licked its rim. Swirling the taste around in his mouth for a moment, he seemed confused. He suddenly thrust the cauldron over his head, and scanned its base for identifying marks, finding a little purple sticker.

"Made on Poosh," he read aloud, then turned on his heels and disgustedly tossed it over his shoulder back onto the pile.

Rose had to steady the wares to stop them all from coming down in a heap.

"Sorry," she apologized to the disappointed shopkeeper, and hurried away after the Doctor, who was already four booths down, his coat tails snapping out behind him, nose up in that peevish air he put on sometimes.

Catching up to him she scolded, “You nearly took out that display.”

“Deserved it,” he pouted, “trying to pass off cheap googaws as priceless antiques.”

She laughed a full, deep laugh that brightened his eyes a bit in spite of himself. “No one was passing off anything. They had stickers. You're just mad you didn't know it straight off," she teased him. She quietly repeated, “Made on Poosh.” Then giggled, “Ha ha ha, I said 'Poosh'.” 

“Made on Poosh,” he echoed, then grinned. “Poosh,” he said again, savoring the “oo” in the middle.

They began taking turns saying “Poosh,” then it devolved into Rose counting down “3,2,1…” and both yelling “Poosh!” simultaneously. 

“Snap!” Rose cried. 

"Yanks would say you owe me a coke," the Doctor noted.

"No, that's 'jinx' and I called it so you owe me a coke," Rose replied.

They’d made their way to a junction of rows where there was another transmat port and a map posted next to it of all the various sections in the market.

“Mmm, this corner’s a bit dull, what I really want is…ah!” He jabbed his finger at a spot about three quarters of the way to the back on the right hand side of the map. “Yo-yo’s!”

“Know any tricks?” Rose asked.

He scoffed and began fishing in his left coat pocket.“But of course. Excellent for detecting gravity.” He pulled out a battered yellow yo-yo and held it up, slowly twirling at the end of a short bit of frayed cotton. “String broke,” he murmured sadly.

“Yo-yo’s it is, then.” Rose stepped with him onto the transmat. The Doctor punched in the code and they stepped off into an area that was decidedly pink.

“Looks a bit Amoureusian,” the Doctor noted.

“Yo-Yo’s Potions & Notions,” read a pink and gold and glitter and fuzzy feather sign, set before a large pink tent. What looked like a cherub from old Earth’s Renaissance period came flitting out over their heads, then zoomed off, all pink and round baby fat with buzzing gossamer wings . 

“Pinch me, I think I just saw Cupid!” Rose exclaimed.

“The Amoureusians are fruitarians,” he said, as if that was a full explanation. Taking in Rose's blank look, he elaborated. “That was a juvenile. They hover in the air to pollinate their orchards. Off the ground, safe from predators. When they become adults they shed their wings and get rather -- hairy. Amoureuse made quite a name for itself as a posh honeymoon destination for New New Earthers, for a while. But the natives do tend to bite, so the popularity’s come down a bit.”

“Do they have tiny little bows and arrows?” Rose laughed as she went in and began looking around the tables of pink things.

He stayed planted outside the entrance, calling after her, “No yo-yo’s at Yo-Yo’s, then. My mistake. So, let’s move on, allons-y and all that, yes?” He shifted from foot to foot, one leg wanting to do anything except walk into the tent and the other leg wanting to do nothing except follow Rose around.

She ignored him for the moment, and wandered about, stopping to look at a display of pretty pink glass bottles. One especially caught her eye, a short but intricate hand-blown iridescent piece with a curlicued stopper. Picking it up she saw it was half filled with some kind of liquid. 

With a mischievous smile, she held up the bottle to get his attention and gave it a little wiggle. She called to him, “Wonder if this is a potion or a notion?” He looked away. “Maybe it’s a love potion,” she added, loudly, and tried to give him an exaggerated wink, but he was busy looking at the sky now, scanning intently for signs of alien invasion, no doubt. “Think I’ll have it,” she continued. He did not reply, but he did finally stroll in, with an air of infinite disinterest, hands in pockets. She knew he was uncomfortable and was enjoying herself immensely.

A burly female lumbered over, just as hairy as the Doctor had described, to begin haggling over price.

The Doctor sidled up next to Rose and whispered in her ear, “Careful not to get her irritated.” She looked at him and he pantomimed a big hairy Amoureusian adult giving someone a big toothy chomp. 

Agreeing on a price, the Doctor gallantly offered to pay, which made Rose give him a little kiss on his cheek after she told him he was sweet. The saleslady wrapped the bottle up for Rose in a bit of pink tissue, held shut with a glittery pink heart-shaped sticker. “He’s got two of those, you know,” she told the shopkeeper, gesturing toward the Doctor and then the sticker. She successfully got a wink in this time, as he looked on, startled, and she thought his eyes widened to the point where they might crawl off his head when the shopkeeper put a second heart on her package.

Walking back out into the afternoon sunshine, Rose realized she still didn’t know what was actually in the bottle. “Wasn’t any kind of warning label. Wonder if you’re supposed to drink all of it at once? Wonder what it does? You don’t think it might be dangerous, do you?” 

The Doctor was studying the transmat’s map again. “Nah, totally harmless,” he replied. “All nostrums, their stuff, strictly for tourists. Most likely outcome's you'll require a peppermint Rennie for your stomach.”

She slipped the little package into one of her hoodie's pockets. Her stomach rumbled loudly, reminding her she still hadn’t eaten today. “Hey,” she remembered, and gave him a nudge, “you still owe me a coke.”

“All the wonders of the universe, Rose, here at our fingertips, and you want a coca-cola? What about trying a nice sparkling Gallaxian punch, or a creamy glass of warm lactic excretion from a friendly Sontaran? Wait, never mind, Sontaran milk is a powerful soporific. Helps them unwind, but it would put you out for days.”

Rose shuddered. “That’s not the main reason I’ll take a pass on that idea, thank you.”

“Ah, I see there’s cricket grounds to our north! I used to be quite the bowler. Amazing how cricket has taken over the galaxy. Fancy taking in an evening match? Likely to be Earth foods about. Chips. Coca-cola. Maybe even a nice curry on a stick?”

“Yeah, all right,” she agreed, and they ported themselves away.

“Hmm, supposed to be a One Day Intergalactic on,” he replied. “Ah, here come some players!” Three identical and very pale humanoids, wearing identical white jumpers, and one large, long bug that looked like a cricket had arrived on the field.

The Doctor and Rose moved down the hill to a good viewing distance, the Doctor spreading his top coat on the ground for them to sit on.

“What sort of aliens are these, then?” Rose asked, settling down to watch the preparations below.

“The insectoid is from the local sentient species, the Gryllids.” He thought about it for a moment and then added, "Brilliant! A cricket playing cricket! The other three are Treblorian. Born as identical triplets. Spend their entire lives together. Bit of a hive mind.”

Rose watched them begin setting up. “Must be the Home side, these blokes,” she noted. The Gryllid began laying down fresh markings for boundary lines and creases with chalky pinkish excretions from its mouth, its palpi working busily. “Don’t tell me, that stuff it’s spitting, that woulda been my candyfloss,” Rose said, shuddering.

Eleven floating orbs of blue light quietly glided by them, then moved off down the hill and stopped to hover in one of the dugouts. “Appears Visiting has arrived, too,” Rose noted. The orbs began elongating into columnar forms, but with no distinguishing appendages, or faces for that matter. “How they gonna play with no hands?” Rose wondered.

“They’re Figurarae. Shapeshifters. They’ll manifest bodies in a tick,” the Doctor explained.

Rose counted the sides again and noticed that Home didn't have enough players to make a team. “Looks like we may have to forfeit.”

“Well, the Gryllid counts for six players. Six legs. Could be almost a whole team itself, but regulation states they have to keep their antennae, palpi, and cerci out of play,” he explained. “And the ovipositor, if she, he, uh, has one.”

Counting again, Rose said, “They’re still short two.”

The Doctor gave her a wide smile. “Care to play?”

“But we don’t have any whites to wear,” she replied.

“Neither will the Figurarae, too much trouble to manifest clothing, they’ll be naked, so we’ll fit right in.” He paused then turned red. “I mean, we’re not going to be naked, no, definitely not us, not naked, of course not, I just meant whites aren’t required, that’s all, not that we’d be naked,” he added, forcing himself to stop speaking so the word “naked” wouldn’t have to jump out of his gob again. They stood up and he busied himself brushing grass from his topcoat as he gathered it up and re-donned it.

“Aren't you up for some starkers cricket?” Rose suggested.

He just gave a muffled “Hmph,” in reply.

She continued to tease him as they trotted down the hill. “Positively Victorian, you are,” she said.

The Doctor approached one of the Treblorians, who was just finishing gingerly placing the last of the bails across the stumps on the near wicket.

“Good day! Lovely day for it. Looks like you're short two, though. I’m the Doctor.” The Treblorian bowed. “This is Rose.” Rose gave a little wave. “Could we offer you our services?” 

The other Treblorians wandered over to join their sibling, and gathering in a little group of three, quietly stared at the ground. The Doctor said softly aside to Rose, “They’re communing.”

The Gryllid, done vomiting the last of the boundary line, hopped to the pitch in two easy strokes of his powerful hind legs. Rose could see why he’d count for six fielders.

“Hello there,” he repeated. “Come to see if you need more players. Oh, just happen to have my Intergalactic Cricket Association card on me.” The Doctor fished a small laminated card out of his pocket and presented it to the insectoid. “Might have lapsed…been a few years. But I was quite the bowler in my day.” The Gryllid politely looked at the card and waved its antennae. “Known for my right-arm leg spin delivery. Got off a few competent 'googlies', now and again," he added, hopefully.

Rose noticed the prolonged silence of the Treblorians was unnerving her friend. In fact, the Doctor was beginning to look like a boy afraid of being picked last for a schoolyard game. He had begun bouncing from foot to foot, and twirling his arms about, in a manic sort of warm-up. He raised his voice and declared, with as much confidence as he could muster, “But I imagine in this body I'm more a fast-pitch man."

Quietly in his ear, Rose said, “Don’t worry, Doctor, if they don’t pick you, we can always have a go on the seesaw, or I’ll let you push me on the swings.”

The Treblorians broke their huddle and one stepped forward. “Agreed. Welcome. Introductions. Ned.” He bowed. “Ted.” Another bowed. “Ed.” Now the third bowed. Pointing to the Gryllid, the spokesman continued, “Rectardius Bob.” It clacked its palpi and rubbed its two front legs together.

Rose’s eyebrows climbed into her hairline. She whispered to the Doctor, “Not a talkative bunch, are they?”

Down in the dugout for the Visiting side, the Figurarae had finished manifesting into more humanoid shapes. Each one was a different color, ranging from red to violet, as a courtesy to help tell them apart, no doubt. A shimmering effect made them appear lit from within, and Rose thought they were the loveliest aliens she’d ever seen, even if they had not bothered to manifest heads. And yes, they were evidently naked, but seeing as they were uniformly smooth it did not much matter.

An umpire had arrived, a light orange humanoid of some kind or another, as had about a dozen spectators. Ned, who was evidently Captain, and a deep Violet from Visiting met for the coin toss. Home won, but Ned elected to field first. He quickly assigned them their positions. 

“Rose, wicket-keeper. Doctor, bowl. Bob, forward short leg, backward short leg, square leg, deep fine leg...” It was clear Bob got the idea. Silently communicating to his brothers, the triplets moved out to cover any positions Bob wouldn’t be able to bound to quickly enough should a ball come their way. 

A brilliant Yellow took up the runner’s spot at the bowling wicket, and seemed to be watching the Doctor with curiosity, as he continued his preparatory calisthenics. “Come to study my technique?” the Doctor preened, and began some vigorous squats. “First Law of Thermodynamics. Conservation of Motion. Load up the spine with kinetic energy and snap it forward like a rubber band. Secret’s in locking your front leg upon delivery, you know.” 

“Start of play,” called the umpire. Everyone was ready. Violet was the first striker, and was patiently waiting at his crease in front of Rose. But the Doctor was still fannying about, running in place now, his knees almost striking his chin, madly windmilling his arms, oblivious to the rest of the field. He had begun telling a story about a time he’d bowled a trideca maiden over in a test between two colonies in the G38 globular cluster of Galaxy M31 when the umpire repeated, “START OF PLAY!” 

“Right, sorry,” the Doctor said, and he walked out, way out, into the field. Farther than Rose believed she had seen anyone do, to begin a run-up. She wondered if there was not some rule? He was all the way to the edge before he stopped. Slowly at first, the Doctor began bounding forward like a pole-jumper, then his stride turned into faster and faster leaping, as his head drew down and back as if he were doing the limbo. It looked almost ridiculous, but if anyone doubted his approach, they were left in awe of his actual delivery. He’d been correct -- this body was wizard at fast pitch.

Drawing the ball in tight to his waist as he reached the bowling crease, he took one last enormous leap into the air, his back foot coming down elegantly just behind the popping crease, then lightly collapsing sideways as his forward leg locked, sending all of the loaded energy coursing towards his now-whirling right arm, his spine snapping forward like a whip from hips to shoulders, keeping time with his hand coming up high and over, to release the ball just at the right moment to deliver the perfect good-length screamer. The Violet batsman had no hope of responding, and he was bowled most soundly as the Doctor’s ball flew straight into the middle stump, tossing both of the bails exuberantly into the air.

The umpire signaled “Out” for the batsman as the Doctor stumbled a few more steps down the pitch, scrubbing off the last of his energy. He gave Rose a wild grin as he neared her, then veered off for a victory lap back up the pitch, raising his hands up high, his hair flopping about in a most glorious fashion. She laughed and realized she’d rarely seen him this happy. 

To her delight, and his, his astonishing performance continued and the crowd of spectators was growing. The Doctor easily bowled Orange and Magenta, then delivered a rather aggressive leg-before-wicket to poor Turquoise. Red was finally able to make contact, but he was quickly caught out by Bob’s middle right leg. A maiden over was definitely afoot.

The Doctor would have had it, too, but a slight miscalculation on his sixth delivery sent a bouncer veering too far to the left and Rose, springing into action to catch it, was forced down hard to the ground. The umpire called it wide, and the Doctor had to set up for another go.

Rose felt all warm and fuzzy and so very proud of him now, this beautiful man, he was like nothing else in all the universe, so charming and honest and slim and foxy. Out there bowling his hearts out. She wanted to see him this full of energy and joy every day, forever and ever, and she found herself hollering out lustily to him, “Atta boy, Doctor! Jes’ mind yer balls!” Turning round to the umpire, she said, “I don’t believe I'd mind ‘em, not one bit." She gave the umpire a wink. "Unless...” She began worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. What if they were weird? She suddenly had to know.

“Doctor!” She screamed to him, and he halted in mid-approach, on full alert, alarmed at the urgency in her tone. He began to run to her, but slowed when his brain processed the fact that she looked perfectly fine. In fact, she looked rather relaxed.

“Yer Albert Halls! You got jes' the two of ‘em, right? No tentacles?” she continued.

The field had grown quiet, as had the spectators. The Doctor threw his hands in the air, gesturing a puzzled, “What?”

“Yer BALLS. How many ya' got?”

He looked down at his hand clutching just the one cricket ball. He decided to ignore her and continue on as if nothing was happening. Easier that way, though it was hard to ignore the back of his neck, as it was beginning to turn very itchy.

He managed to deliver again, but he was distracted now, and clumsily bowled an air over boundary for six to Green. Green and Yellow, Green and Yellow, Green and Yellow, the Visiting players took their runs.

The Doctor looked up the pitch to Rose, and was horrified to see her start bellowing at him again.

“Oi, Doctor! Love yer length, nice 'n long, and yer line, ya got great lines, but maybe right at the end ya could give it a nice swirrrrl, eh?” She was rolling her hips suggestively, evidently to demonstrate how she wanted him to put a spin on things at the end of his delivery. It hit him --that damn potion she’d put in her pocket. It must have spilled on her when she fell. 

He was in the midst of trying to decide what to do next, very aware that all eyes were on them, when she called out to him again. “Hey, yer bits--they ain’t all smooth like Rainbow Brite here?” She rudely pointed at the appendage-less Yellow batsman, who had taken up position just before her at the crease. 

Ned approached the Doctor, his face full of concern. “I suspect your female has entered estrus. Do you not wish to retire and mate with her?”

Mortified, the Doctor threw his cricket ball to the ground and growled, “Enough.” Springing into action, he ran up the pitch to Rose, and without saying a word threw her smoothly over his right shoulder, and began stalking off the field.

Very much liking the new direction things were taking, she began giggling. “Tits up!” she screamed out as she went upside-down, and tried to wave goodbye to their teammates with a hand that was now dangling helplessly down the Doctor’s back.

He marched up the hill with her, back toward the Tardis. His suspicion was correct--his bowling had indeed hit and broken that damned potion bottle and it had gotten all over her. The pocket and hem of her hoodie and the top of her jeans were saturated with it. Pressed as she was to him now, he could pick out the smell of the chemicals, and was pretty sure he knew what they were. “Harmless,” he’d told her. Harmless to him. He wouldn’t be affected, which was a small blessing, because at least they wouldn’t end up rutting around together right here in the grass like animals. A momentary twinge of regret was instantly shoved back into the grotty recesses of his subconscious where it belonged. 

He began bitterly chastising himself, whinging to the sky. “Quite right, just what I was hoping for today. Care for an accidental poisoning, Rose? Come along, then. Oh, there’s no need to identify random unmarked liquids before you put them in your pocket, where would be the fun in that? But let’s make certain when it does end up spilling all over you, once I’ve aggressively assaulted you with a cricket ball, that it’s a highly potent, enactogenic, transdermally active alien love potion. Surprised, though, it was in a bottle. More expected it’d COME ON A STICK!” 

Realizing they were heading away from all the fun Rose began to protest. “But I don’t wanna go home!” Rose wailed. “We were winnin’!” 

“No, we weren’t,” he replied, irritated and secretly embarrassed that he had not delivered on his opening boasts.

“This is pants!” she complained, wriggling to get down. “I wanted t’ bat!” Her writhing caused her to shift precariously backward on the Doctor’s shoulders, and he had to grab at her bum to hoist her back up. “Ooo!” Rose purred, stopping mid-moan. “Do that again.” 

She found her attention transfixed by the long, cool fingers gripping her right wrist, and the lean, strong arm and wide, well-muscled shoulder thrust between her thighs. She began to watch the provocative movement going on under the back of his topcoat. Reaching down, she hoisted up his tails with her dangling left hand. “Good day, yer Majesty,” she called out to what she found underneath.

“Beg your pardon?” the Doctor asked over his shoulder.

“Jus’ talking to yer Queen Mum,” she cheerily replied, and tried to bring her hand up to give his left cheek a pinch. Sadly her movement just made his coat come back down to cover up all that delicious, firm pistoning that was going on under there, so she settled for sticking her face into his neck and inhaling deeply. “Mmmm,” she said. “Doctor-y.” 

He could see the Tardis in the distance. Just another couple hundred yards, he thought, gritting his teeth. She blessedly kept relatively quiet the rest of the way, though she began trying to squeeze his right arse cheek through his coat, but she could not muster the coordination to pull it off, making her grunt with frustration. Reaching the door he set her down and fished out his key. He grabbed her by the elbow and ushered her in and towards the medical bay.

“Speakin’ a pants,” Rose said (and the Doctor was hard pressed to recall when they had been speaking about pants), “wanted to ask ‘bout yours for ages.”

“What?” he squeaked, realizing that they’d now reached the subject of his knickers.

“C’mon, give it up. Boxers or briefs?” Not getting an immediate reply, she lunged at him, trying to get under the back of his coat again. “Jus’ need a peek, luv, down the back a your trou’,” she said.

“Rose, stop it, here’s the infirmary, go in, please.” Thank everyone’s gods, everywhere, he thought, this would be over soon. He spoke to her indulgently, like she was a small child. “Get on the table, Rose, that’s a good girl.” He activated an above-bed scanner to give him precise vitals on her. He felt a wash of relief at seeing all the numbers that really counted coming back normal. There had been no damage to her liver, yet.

He reached into a drawer and brought out a hand-held device that would give him a quick analysis of the toxins in her body. He lifted it to her. “Please blow into this for me.” She complied, but very slowly. Locking eyes with him, she lipped the instrument, ran the bottom of her tongue over its top rim, and then took it into her mouth way farther than necessary, before huffing out loudly.

He pretended not to notice her wanton behavior, clamping his attention on the display at his end. The results showed he’d been correct as to the identity of the psychoactive chemicals. He fished around in a cabinet for a moment then returned to her with a small glass vial of an appropriate blocker, and an injector.

Perched on the edge of the exam table, swinging her feet and smiling, Rose was a picture of loopy bliss. Her hair was all mussed from being upside down, half of it hanging in her eyes. As he approached with the injector, she leaned forward to speak intimately into his face, so that he had to dodge around her head to see what he was doing. Her warm breath tickling his nose, she continued on about his pants. “Hope they ain’t plain white cotton briefs, that’d be a shame. ‘Cause you, sir,” she said, leaning back to stroke her hands up and down his chest, “you’re a right Lord, ain’t ya? ‘N I think you rate somethin’ sexy.”

He tried to concentrate on checking the dosage a second time. “Rose, hold still, I’m going to give you something to counteract the effects.”

As the injector hissed the medicine into her neck, she leered at his groin and said, in a slow, sultry tone, “I’d like t’ see yer little time lord in a tight, blue, soft, silk tonga.” She grazed up his body slowly with her eyes. “Yes, indeed,” she concluded, meeting his startled gaze, then clicked her tongue against her teeth and poked it out at him.

“Give it a second and you won’t anymore,” he said, and with a sigh turned his back and began to put the things away, forcing his body to stop being interested in this ridiculous conversation. Rose had been poisoned, and in a few minutes she’d be completely mortified. He kicked himself for pointlessly putting her at risk like this. Getting into scrapes defending timelines and saving planets, that was one thing, she’d signed on for that, but this was just stupid.

Quickly taking effect, the medication began clearing all the delicious, warm feelings out of Rose’s mind. She was sorry to see them go. She slumped back with a glazed expression, then brought her hand to her forehead. “Ow, that’s a headache,” she said, suddenly looking weak and pale.

“Here, let me help,” he said. He took down a bottle from a shelf and opened it, then gently took her hand and turned it palm up, shaking out two pills. He got her a small cup of water from the sink.

She meekly said, “Couple of aspirins and call me in the morning, eh?” then swallowed them.

“Yes, I imagine you could use some rest.” He finished tidying up the infirmary and then waited for her to follow him out into the corridor. “Off to your room, young lady,” he commanded, and began to escort her there.

Arriving at her door, she hesitated, and managing enough courage to look him in the eye, apologised. “Sorry about your match. You were a great bowler. And I’m really sorry you had t’ carry me back here. I'm a armload a bricks, don’t know how you managed it.”

“Oh, I'm certain I could manage it again,” he replied, his eyes smiling. “But seriously, entirely my fault, this. Shoulda scanned that bottle straight away and warned you off it. I’m rubbish, can’t keep you safe anywhere we go.”

Looking at the door to her room, Rose realized she wasn’t sleepy, she was hungry. “I don’t fancy a kip, but I really need to eat. I’m starving! Do you think we could go somewhere, like, normal, and get a proper dinner?” 

He smiled wanly. He was truly relieved she was not furious with him. “I have the perfect idea!” he said, snapping his fingers, suddenly in a lighter frame of mind. Reaching out to cup her chin, he gently said, “I’d like to make this up to you, if you’ll allow it. May I take you somewhere? I promise nowhere alien, just dinner and dancing. Perhaps you could ask the Tardis to kit you out properly for a real evening on the town?”

“You askin' me out? Yeah, sounds lovely! Need to clean up a bit first, though, don’t I?” She looked down at her disheveled state. “I’m awful dirty.”

“I’ve noticed,” he softly replied. She realized he did not mean just her appearance, and blushed. “And, per your earlier query,” he added, leaning in towards her ear, his voice growing husky, “the little Time Lord likes to go commando.” He thrust his hands in his pockets, turned on his heel, and swanned off down the hall, leaving her to look at the back of his head.

“Wicked,” she murmured. She let out the breath she’d been holding and went into her room to shower and see what the Tardis might have for her to wear.

 

❦❦


	2. Very Uptown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and Rose may be dressed to the nines, but they don't quite fit in with the high Society company they are keeping at the posh Hotel Astor.

Very Uptown

He was pacing. Up and down his wardrobe. He couldn’t think straight. He couldn’t think his crooked way out of a tessellation, either, for that matter. He’d just leapt right off the cliff-face of his comfort zone, with no thought as to what he was about. On pure impulse he’d gone and asked Rose out on a date. Suddenly the stakes were as high as they could possibly get, because he knew that, according to human custom, at the end of a date you were supposed to decide if you wanted to see more of one another. Or worse, decide to cut your losses and call it quits. Dammit all. Either way he was in the soup. The first outcome made him so nervous he thought he might regenerate on the spot, and should the second happen, he might choose to never regenerate again.

Too late to back-pedal now, to pretend it wasn’t meant as a romantic gesture. Because what could be more romantic to a young human woman than the offer of an evening of dancing and posh dining, decked out in formal wear, all wrapped in mystery? He groaned. Rassilon help him, he had actually boasted that his private bits would be spending the evening dangling freely down his trousers, and that he liked it that way.

This body, it was rubbish at being a good Time Lord. He fought back a wave of shame. He had always assumed his people were fundamentally correct on the subject of sex. Taking one's baser urges out for walks, that was asking for trouble. When you’re the equivalent of a minor deity, one mustn't go rutting about the universe, fraternising with the natives with your pants off. But Rose wanted him. After today, he was certain she did. Those potion chemicals had wiped out her inhibitions, but they couldn’t cause any feelings that weren’t already there. No, Rose fancied him. Sod the Time Lords. Gallifrey was gone. Earth was the closest thing to a home planet he had left. “Maybe it’s time to just plunge in, once and for all,” he murmerd to himself.

But what to wear, what to wear? He grabbed down a white-tie ensemble that was suspiciously at hand. A silk top hat and a pair of white gloves appeared on a nearby shelf. “It has to be tails and a top hat, really?” he asked the Tardis. He sighed. He was hoping for something less stiff, with fewer layers, maybe something easier to slip out of after an alfresco supper on a warm tropical beach somewhere, and laughing, run into the moonlit surf with Rose, where they might… But Rose, she would love him in this. If this was what the Tardis and Rose wanted him to wear, then he didn’t want to disappoint the women in his life. Nothing for it but to bash on. Though he couldn’t help but grimace as he donned the silly hat. He knew, if things worked out, that years from now Rose would still be poking fun about it.

A few hallways down, after bathing and styling her hair into a loose up-do, which she deemed neutral for most time periods, Rose put on the jewelry the Tardis had laid out for her on the bathroom counter; a silver woven brow band with a pendant hanging from one side, with small dangling geometric earrings and a matching necklace. Diamonds and platinum, she guessed, and she rather enjoyed the sensual feeling of wearing nothing but them right now, as she wandered into her room towards her armoire. Opening it, she perused the choices she’d been given for clothes. She decided, despite the Doctor’s intentions, she had best pick out something good for running. So she chose the most sensible shoes offered, cream silk but with heels that were low and wide, and with a strap across the vamp to keep them securely on her feet. Just in case they were being chased by giant aliens with the heads of rhinoceroses. Again. 

She picked a one piece dress that had a plenty of kicking room. Made from translucent layers of lace over a simple, flowing silk sheath, with its mid-calf hem, and sleeveless bodice, it would be easy to wear. She pulled down a thick crushed velvet evening cape, lushly embroidered with geometric patterns in gold silk thread. Better bring that, too, just in case they found themselves caught in freak snowstorm, caused by the disintegration of alien starships in the atmosphere. Again.

She wasn’t sure what potential perils the thigh-high silk stockings and matching satin garters and knickers laid out on her bed would be good for. Then she thought, maybe those were in case the evening actually turned out as billed. She felt a little thrill. He’d finally done it! He’d asked her out on a date! She needed to take a few deep breaths before she went totally giddy. 

After dressing, she went looking for him, and found him at his controls. She was delighted to see him wearing something other than his usual suit. Not that he wasn’t lovely in his usual, but the change tonight played him up as the mysterious stranger. He appeared truly timeless. His tall, slender build carried off the glossy black tailcoat perfectly. And all those enticing layers of creamy silk: cummerbund, vest, bow tie and dress shirt. She realised he was watching her ogle him, for not the first time today, and she should have felt embarrassed except she was busy being overcome with laughter. He was sporting such a terrified, wide-eyed expression, like a rabbit being swooped down upon by a giant raptor at the edge of a wood, except the rabbit was wearing an enormous, very silly, infinitely endearing top hat. 

He began laughing, too, though he wasn’t sure he knew why, except she was happy, and he moved to stand before her. Rose watched as he softly took up one of her hands and he, goodness, he was kissing her hand, pressing his cool lips to it. Then he was murmuring endearing things, like, “Thank you for letting me escort you tonight,” and, “You are so lovely to me, Rose.” He turned her hand over, like it was the most precious thing, and kissed the inside of her wrist. 

“I think I’m gonna melt into the floor if you keep that up,” she said.

“No, no melting. From our clothes, I’d say the Tardis is sending us somewhere non-Tropical.” 

He was being all coy now. What a tease, she thought. Lord of Time, more like Lord of Tease. “Just hope it’s on Earth,” she said, hopefully.

“Ah, but who knows! Mystery tour, right? She’s in charge, the Tardis. I'm just doing as I'm told. I put on these togs then came in here and pushed a great big blue blinking button, and away we go!”

“Well wherever she’s taking us, I hope there’s food I recognize,” Rose said. “And I definitely hope it’s --” 

“Not-on-a-stick!” they chimed in unison.

“Snap!” The Doctor had it this time.

The Tardis flew smoothly, for once. The Doctor didn’t have to do any racing around with mallets. “She must not want me to muss my suit,” he said, patting the console. He thought his ship gave him a soft wink with her lights as she landed them without the usual thud. “So, Miss Tyler, shall we?” He held out his arm. Rose took it. They hooked elbows and tripped lightly out to their mystery date.

The Tardis had parked herself in an alleyway between two elaborate stone buildings, next to a busy city street. The sun had just finished setting, but poshly dressed passersby were still thronging the adjacent sidewalk, and the roadway was choked with shiny old-fashioned black automobiles and long rumbling streetcars filled with men and women in hats. So many hats. Rose wondered if the Tardis should have given her a hat. A large group of young men in military dress wearing pointy hats with broad brims passed by, laughing in the rowdy way soldiers do when they’re on leave. “Must be a war on,” Rose said.

“Yes,” the Doctor replied, taking note of the style of their uniforms. His expression turned dark. “The ‘Great’ War,” he said sarcastically. His sudden bitterness startled Rose, given the jolly mood they had just been in. He continued, “Nasty business that war. Millions slaughtered, to no purpose. Merely the rich and powerful, having a carve-up of the world.” 

A man's voice came from behind them. “Couldn’t agree with you more, chap.” They turned around to see who was addressing them. Stepping out of a side doorway into the alley was a dapper man, with an impeccably groomed mustache, and a top hat that Rose was amused to see had the Doctor’s beat by about an inch and a half. The man was sporting an elegant, dark-haired lady on his arm. She was draped in a mountain of sable furs, with an intelligent, penetrating stare hovering above a wry smile.

“You had best keep your voices down,” she said. “Four of us talking this way together in a dark alley--patriotism is all the rage this year, haven't you heard? Can’t collect your thoughts these days without getting arrested for unlawful assembly.”

The Doctor studied the couple for a second, trying to place them, and saw that the door they’d come from was marked, “Stage.” Before he could put it together, the gentleman introduced himself. “Robert Benchley.” He held his hand out for the Doctor to shake. “And this dangerous woman on my arm is --” 

The Doctor, ignoring the man’s hand, instead grabbed up the woman’s and began pumping it up and down vigorously. “Dottie Parker, of course!” he exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear.

The richly dressed lady gave him a small frown and gingerly reclaimed her hand. Turning to Rose, she held it out and said,“Mrs. Dorothy Parker,” correcting the familiar manner in which Doctor had addressed her. “Perhaps you’ll be less enthusiastic to meet me,” she said, in a way that was scolding but also full of a dry humor.

Rose gave the lady’s hand a gentle press then released it. “Please excuse my friend, he’s a bit rude,” she apologised.

“Sorry, so sorry!” the Doctor said, catching hold of his manners. “Oh, who am I then? I’m the Doctor, Doctor Smith, Sir Doctor John Smith, actually. And this is my lovely companion, Dame Rose Tyler Powell. This is truly a pleasure. I’ve heard so much about you both. The Great War, Broadway in its heyday, the dawn of the Jazz Age, yes, and here’s Dorothy Parker and Robert Benchley!”

“Do I know you, sir?” Mrs. Parker asked.

“Not directly, no, but I believe we have a mutual friend.” The Doctor reached into his inner coat pocket to fish out his psychic paper. “Spent an excellent week at Le Touquet this summer, ran into P.G. Wodehouse, good times, yes, delightful spot, hmm, but perhaps you know it? French seaside, everyone was there this year.” He handed the small black leather folder to Mrs. Parker, knowing it would display for her whatever she needed to see to ease his and Rose’s way into her company. “Tout le monde, and all that.” He gave his eyebrows a little exercise, for Rose’s benefit.

Rose turned her head to chide into his ear, “Pouring the society thing on a bit thick, yeah?”

The psychic paper was showing Mrs. Parker a recent photo of two smiling men, their arms around one another, posing casually on a beach. She showed it to Mr. Benchley. “Look, Bob, it’s our dear Plum!”

“Good old P.G.,” replied Mr. Benchley, “Long may he stay gone across the Pond while we enjoy his position, and his salary, at Vanity Fair magazine.”

Mrs. Parker laughed. “I must say, he looks simply ridiculous, that costume is practically to his ankles. Someone needs to liberate him. Men are daring to show a little knee this century! And this must be you, Doctor Smith,” she continued, pointing to the photo. “Now your bathing suit, that’s more like it. I believe that to be a fine example of why modern men are being encouraged to display more of their legs.” 

She handed the fake photo back to the Doctor with a direct and flirty stare that made Rose feel a passing twinge of irritation. 

Mr. Benchley continued. “We’ve just come from a rehearsal of Barrymore’s new play, Redemption. Cheery Russian thing, Tolstoi. Dottie’s been sent to review it and I’m assisting. It’s taken both of us to replace Wodehouse as theater critic at Vanity Fair--no one's as prolific. God bless Plum, haven’t seen him all summer. How is he getting on?”

“Well, very well,” the Doctor said. “Busy penning stories about a butler named Jeeves. Have a feeling it’ll catch on.”

“Care to join us for supper?" Mr. Benchley asked. "We were just on our way to the Astor. Have you been on their roof?” 

Rose and the Doctor shook their heads.

“Then this is a fateful evening indeed,” said Mrs. Parker. “For one cannot truly say they have experienced New York until one has dined amid the appalling muddle of over-wrought orangeries, tortured topiaries, and mismatched plaster antiquities that is the roof garden of the Hotel Astor.” 

“It would be our pleasure!” the Doctor replied. The foursome walked out onto the busy sidewalk and headed north.

“The Great White Way. The beginnings of Broadway,” the Doctor instructed Rose, who was taking in the flashing glow of thousands of white incandescent lights, covering every building and marquee.

“This is Times Square, innit? This is where they drop the ball--I recognize it from telly,” Rose said.

Falling back to come alongside her, Mrs. Parker took Rose’s free arm, prompting the Doctor to move up to Mr. Benchley. “Let’s allow the men to continue their chat about the War, shall we? Us females have better things to talk about--such as them. Your Dr. Smith is quite the charmer, but I suppose you’ve noticed.” 

Rose just gave a nod and a weak smile. After a few moments of silence, Mrs. Parker realised she was not going to be rewarded with any juicy tidbits. She changed tactics, inquiring, “So where exactly did you say your people are from, Dame Rose?”

“Powell.” 

“Oh, is that in the south?”

“Outside London. You been?” Rose was trying to get the topic of conversation off herself. She was already out of her element, and having to be “Dame Rose,” it was too much. She felt off-balance, and exposed. She would prefer facing down a homicidal alien over this society lady. Her romantic evening was quickly turning into something else entirely, something that did not even include getting to walk next to the Doctor.

“Have I been to London? But of course,” Mrs. Parker replied. “Tremendous theater there, but I’m sure you’re well aware. Though you lot seem convinced that, just because you’ve a half-century more practice putting on plays, you must have it over on us. We’ve had such drivel here lately, I may give it to you. Big thing right now is this brainless Irving Berlin spectacular, featuring the international hit ‘Over There,’ you know, the rousing wartime tune everyone’s singing while they shoot at one another in the mud? Why, my newly-wed husband may be leading a chorus of it right now. He left a few weeks ago. For France.” Mrs. Parker grew silent for a moment, and Rose could sense a deep disappointment in her. “Men will cherish honor and duty, won’t they? Convenient when it gets them out of the house.”

“Did you not want him to go?” Rose asked, gently.

Mrs. Parker waved her free arm dismissively, and laughed a thin laugh. “If a large, strong, able-bodied man won’t go to war because a perfectly self-supporting woman says that she would miss him if he went--well, seems to me that would be a trifle over-obliging of him.”

Rose contemplated the Doctor, walking a few feet ahead of them. She nodded at his back. “S’impossible to stop him when he’s set on somethin’. And he takes off so fast you ain’t got time to try and talk ‘im out of anythin', anyways. He says I wander off, but really it’s him that does. We’ll be visitin’, say, some foreign city, and I’ll turn ‘round and he’s just disappeared. Poof. Jus’ like that. Been left on my own lots of times.” Mrs. Parker was starting to look alarmed. “But he always comes back,” Rose hurriedly added, realising she had begun to babble. “Though sometimes we’ll bump into one another when we’re both runnin’ from opposite directions, like, back to our, uh, hotel, and occasionally I’ve had to go lookin’ for him, ‘cause he’s been arrested…” Rose realised it might be better to just not talk, before she sparked suspicion. Mrs. Parker’s keen sideways glances and intrigued air suggested it was way too late for that.

She’s gonna make us, Rose thought.

“Here we are, the Hotel Astor,” Mr. Benchley announced. The large, stately building was ornately ornamented, and had every one of its hundreds of windows topped gaily in yards of gold striped fabric. Apprising it, he declared, “The finest architectural example I know of our Golden Age of Window Awnings.” 

Two liveried doormen swung open a pair of heavy beveled glass doors, and the group headed across a cavernous lobby and into an elegant elevator. An operator in a little pill-box hat secured the doors and asked them their destination. As he took them up to the roof, Mrs. Parker and Mr. Benchley began loudly discussing something about someone they knew. The Doctor took the opportunity to sidle up to Rose, and whisper, “Think the Tardis wants a window awning?”

“Don’t you dare,” Rose whispered back. “She’d buck like a bronco, and knock us silly. You know,” she chided him, while she had his ear, “I wish you’d left out my being ‘Dame Rose.’ Not like I can pull it off, not with this lot. Blimey they make me nervous.”

“This from the wee naked child who teased Queen Victoria mercilessly? Why intimidated now?”

“Dunno, but I am. The way that Parker woman stares, it’s like she sees right through you. By the way, a ‘Dame,’ never found out what that is exactly, is it some kinda Duchess?”

He didn’t get a chance to reply, because as soon as the elevator arrived at the roof garden, Mrs. Parker began exclaiming loudly, then she was out like a shot, towering and fussing over a rather short, very slight, very pale woman with a small, freckled face and an unruly mop of flame-red hair, wearing a wrinkled linen suit that was ten years out of fashion. 

Mrs. Parker motioned to the Doctor and Rose to approach. “Sir Smith, Dame Rose, please let me introduce you to the only Bohemian I can tolerate, Miss Edna St. Vincent Millay. Edna, this is Sir Doctor John Smith, and his friend Dame Rose Tyler Powell.” 

Everyone shook hands, Miss Millay taking Mrs. Parker to task immediately. “If Bohemia is so intolerable, then why is your set starting to overrun us? Can barely find a seat for a play anymore, and the cafes are terribly crowded every weekend. The poor communists don’t know where to hold their meetings, now that all the best back rooms are filling up with people in formal wear. Honestly, Bob, Dottie, couldn’t you let drop in one of your columns that my little corner of New York is no longer fashionable?”

“Darling I have no idea what the appeal is, believe me,” replied Mrs. Parker. “I can’t stand it below 14th Street. Everyone wearing sandals and imagining themselves actors, artists and such.” Turning to the Doctor and Rose, she belied her earlier harsh teasing with a true look of affection, and awe, at Miss Millay. She proudly hugged her around her shoulder and said, “Mind you, Edna here is the real thing. She’s our new sensation, and rightly so. She makes poetry look so easy, we all think we can do it. So we try, and of course we can’t.”

Mr. Benchley chimed in. “I can imagine a time coming when Vanity Fair won’t go to press without one of her poems in it.” Addressing Miss Millay directly, he said, “I am glad you stooped to coming to dine with us. Oh, and congratulations on your new position at The Liberator! We are all looking forward, indeed, to being liberated. Now let’s see about some dinner, shall we?” He motioned to the Maitre d’Hotel to have them seated.

They were led to a modest, round table, ringed with the type of chairs one would find in a garden, under an elegant glass and iron structure that was reminiscent of a soaring greenhouse. Grape vines draped and wound about its iron rafters, and orange and lemon trees stood about in huge pots along the walls. The building could be closed or opened with many sliding panels and windows, and tonight’s mild temperatures were perfect for it being partially open to the night air.

“Lucky we’ve an Indian Summer this year,” Mrs. Parker said.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to talk about the weather,” Mr. Benchley teased.

A waiter presented them each with an enormous menu.

Rose had been guided to sit across from the Doctor, and not next to him. That was really too bad, she thought, because she could have used his help with the menu. Most of it was in French, which wasn’t a problem, as the Tardis handily translated for her, but even in English there was no way to tell what ingredients anything actually contained, or how it was prepared. “Petites Marnites,” she read aloud, dazed, and then, “Croute au Pot.”

Miss Millay, who had been seated next to Rose, saw her scowling at the menu and leaned in to quietly confess, “I haven’t a clue what half this bunk is.”

“Me neither, Miss Millay!” Rose replied, grateful that the small woman had the courage to admit it, which made Rose feel suddenly much more at ease.

“Call me Vincent,” Miss Millay replied quietly. “That’s how my friends do. I need to be reminded who I am when I’m this far Uptown. Of course, you can leave off the ‘Saint’ that comes before it. For good reasons.” She gave Rose a wink, and a slightly flirtatious smile.

Rose realized that inside this slight, plain-looking girl was banked a flame that could leap into a roaring fire, at any given moment. It was an exciting realization, and made Rose want to be around her more. There was something endearing about Vincent, too, she felt. Something that made you want to be kind to her. Probably her openness, Rose concluded.

“How’d you meet these two?” Vincent asked quietly, gesturing to Mrs. Parker and Mr. Benchley. “Never mind,” she interrupted herself. “I don’t care.” Rose had the impression Vincent was not all that comfortable with them, either.

Rose continued scowling at the menu while Vincent chatted up their hostess.

“How’s Redemption coming along, Dottie?”

“Barrymore is flawless. The production is truly headed for perfection. But while they were translating the thing into English, I do wish they’d done something about those Russian names. Seems in Russia, each person is sometimes called by all of his names, sometimes by only his first three or four, and sometimes by a nickname which has nothing to do with any of the other names; it’s difficult to gather exactly whom they are talking about. They could have changed Fedor Vasilyevich Protosov and Sergei Dmitrievich Abreskov and Ivan Petrovich Alexandrov into Ted and Ned and Ed, and I would be less confused.”

Upon hearing this string of names, the Doctor and Rose looked up and and locked eyes, trading a conspiratorial grin. Now that was a coincidence to end all coincidences, thought Rose.

The Doctor inquired of her, “Decided on what you’d like?”

“Not sure,” she said. 

“Perhaps try the duck?” he suggested, tapping his finger at a large section of his menu, entitled “Roast Duck.”

“Yeah, but which one?” Rose asked. She began reading the choices aloud. “Ruddy Duck, Canvas Back Duck, Red Headed Duck, Mallard Duck, and… Plover. Think there’ll be any ducks left in New York after tonight? Oh, I did see this one--Potatoes Parisienne. Wonder if they mean chips? You know, like, Paris Potatoes, as in, French Fries?”

“Mmm, doubtful, but give it a go,” the Doctor replied, adding, “and maybe something recognizable, eh, like the Roast Fillet of Beef?”

“Yeah, alright, that sounds nice.”

Rose was astonished to feel a smooth dress sock, enclosing some rather alarmingly agile toes, begin to tap lightly at her ankle, and then rub up and down the top of her foot. She locked eyes with the Doctor again, and took in his mirthful twinkle. Maybe this was his way of trying to make it up to her for the crowded turn their evening had taken? At any rate, if he was going to keep doing this, she didn’t care who they were sitting with.

Cool as a cucumber, he announced to the table, “Think I fancy oysters tonight. Haven’t had an oyster in, oh, centuries! Shame to go without something so nice for so long.”

“You sure you need ‘em?” Rose countered, enjoying a shiver caused by an especially delicious pass up the back of her calf with the top of his foot.

“Why,” the Doctor put on a shocked tone, “Dame Rose Tyler Powell, you can’t be referring to the oyster’s reported ability to induce an amorous--” 

He was interrupted by Mrs. Parker. “Now you two behave, this is a respectable establishment, you’ll frighten the waiters.”

Vincent added, “Come to the Village, and we can discuss sex all you like over a fifteen cent spaghetti dinner. My favorite garrett’s all libertines, they’ll cheer you on.”

The Doctor, true to his word, ordered two dozen raw oysters, and a large tray of pickled gherkins to go with them. And a martini. “Just for the olive,” he explained. 

“Disgustin’,” Rose commented.

“No, Rose, olives are good for you,” he replied.

“Didn’t mean the olive,” she countered. To which the Doctor responded by toeing the side of her knee and then trying to wiggle his way up the back of her thigh. These further explorations were making him scoot down now in his chair to the point where Rose was sure their little game was going to be found out. It did seem Mr. Benchley was becoming more and more amused, watching the Doctor.

The food arrived. Rose was disappointed when the Doctor removed his foot and sat up straight, and also that her Parisian potatoes were not chips. They were round, for one thing, and covered in some kind of green goo for another. She did try them; they did not taste bad, but she could not get past the texture. She eventually ate all her steak, though, after picking off all the mushrooms and arranging them in a little pile at the edge of her plate. 

Vincent urged her to try some of what she had blindly ordered, something called “Aiquillettes of Sole Dieppoise,” which turned out to be pieces of baked fish in a white wine sauce, and was quite delicious. Rose took a pass on a chance to sample Vincent’s pickled beets. The Doctor, however, hearing anything pickled on offer, insisted on standing up, leaning over the table, and fishing a beet across from Vincent’s plate onto his, to the further amusement of Mr. Benchley and the consternation of Mrs. Parker.

Wine kept coming throughout the meal, thanks to Mr. Benchley. After a few glasses, Rose realized she had best lay off if she did not want a repeat of today’s performance. The Doctor seemed unaffected by the wine, though he had consumed several glasses, along with his martini. 

A band began to play at the other end of the roof.

“Excuse us, ladies and gentleman, I believe I owe someone a dance. Dame Rose Tyler Powell, how ‘bout it?” the Doctor asked, getting up and walking to Rose, where he gallantly pulled out her chair for her.

“Never thought you’d ask,” Rose replied, happily rising.

They strolled arm in arm across the length of the roof garden to the dance floor, passing first under a plaster replica of the Arch of Titus, then winding among several statues of dubious artistic merit, depicting various minor Roman sprites and nymphs. They took in an adjoining forest of potted palm trees and ferns, and finally stopped for a moment to view a busy fountain featuring a plaster Venus rising from a lopsided clamshell. 

The dance floor was huge, and so was the orchestra. Dozens of couples were already out dancing, with room to spare, on the polished wood parquet tiles that floated over the roof. The scene was lit with strings of more of Broadway’s electric white lights.

The band finished their current number, and struck up a popular current ragtime tune. The dancers all let out a “Whoop!” and took up positions for the fox trot. 

“C’mon, let’s show them our moves,” the Doctor said, whisking Rose up onto the dance floor, his right hand reaching round to firmly press her between her shoulder blades, the other pulling a pair of their matched arms high and out, poised as if they were about to begin a waltz.

To her amazement, Rose felt prompted in these opening movements, as if she had been doing this all her life, in the same way she understood alien languages when they were on a new planet.

Starting with small, nimble movements, the Doctor pushed one foot forward, then backwards, Rose following him like a mirror, then the other foot, then a bit of a turn, their hips twisting in a bobbing, sliding way that was quite merry.

As the dance progressed, and they got the hang of one another, their steps grew larger and larger. Bobbing turned to bouncing, then kicks were added out to one side, then the next, then the all their steps turned into rollicking, hopping high kicks. The crowd was working itself into a lather, as couples began free-styling, some promenading up and down the floor in exaggerated versions of ersatz tangos, others breaking off contact to point their fingers in the air and hop around one another in a circle before meeting up again.

“This isn’t dancing,” Rose happily shouted, “it’s skipping!”

The fox trot was really doing marvelous things to the Doctor’s mess of floppy hair, Rose noticed. Laughing, she leaned in to him, and they gave it their all with a final barrage of swinging side kicks, working together like a mad pendulum, as the song came to a rousing end.

A slower, more sedate two-step began, and they let themselves rest as they swayed together.

“So the Tardis showed me those steps?” she wondered out loud.

His reply was murmured into her hair. “Yes, she's really the one with the moves. Translating the dance for you. Translating the language of love for me.”

"Love." There was a word she had never heard him speak before, in any context. She arched her back to look at his face. She saw in his eyes that rare, raw vulnerability which she longed to coax out into the open, where it might grow into something she could carefully nurture, forever, if he would allow it.

“Sometime,” she whispered, returning her head to his shoulder, “I’d like to hear you speak to me in your language.”

“You already have, I think,” he replied, humor in his voice.

She gave him a little smack on his shoulder. “I don’t mean all the swearin’ you do when you and the Tardis aren’t gettin’ on.”

He grinned and they kept putting one foot in front of the other, through several more numbers, easily moving under the Tardis’ gentle guidance.

 

❦❦


	3. Very Merry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our vagabonds are suspected to be either anarchists or actors; poet Edna St. Vincent Millay whisks them away for a night on another side of town; a ferry is boarded; a fortune teller strikes a sour note.

Very Merry

Back at the table, Mr. Benchley, Mrs. Parker and Miss Millay were engaged in a closing glass of sherry, and a debate as to the true identity of their new acquaintances.

Mrs. Parker was arguing, decisively, “There is no way P.G. knows that man, because if P.G. knew him, I would know him. Many other women I know would have known him, as well. And I do mean in the biblical sense.”

Mr. Benchley raised an eyebrow, and swirled his port around in its glass. He could not imagine all the women they knew throwing themselves at the Doctor’s feet, if he was a doctor, which he seriously doubted. 

Mrs. Parker continued, “The whole thing about their having titles, it’s preposterous. Even if he had, she certainly does not. Too many ‘aint’s’ and ‘havin’s,’ and I don’t believe she’s ever been to a restaurant! Oh, and I have to tell you the most shocking thing, she confided to me that he has been arrested before, and something about running for their lives in a foreign country--”

Miss Millay jumped forward on her chair and said with delight, “Do you suppose they are anarchists? Perhaps he is wanted in Russia, or Italy, right now, and she, so in love with him, has accompanied him into his exile, looking for a new start in America. Perhaps they are meeting a contact here in New York, and thought you might be them!”

Mr. Benchley had heard enough, and felt it was time to interject some reason. “My dear ladies, as taken as you are with your romantic notions, I can promise you, after careful study, that this ‘Sir Smith’ is far too big a goof to successfully set off an explosion, anywhere, let alone seduce all the women in the Arts on both sides of the Atlantic. No, I am afraid you have been taken in by two hopeful actors, looking to make an impression.”

Mrs. Parker inhaled sharply. “Actors!” She made a tut-tut and shook her head, her shoulders falling. “How disappointing. But now I see it clear as day, Bob, and I must concur. What a pity.”

Miss Millay spotted the Doctor and Rose coming back to the table, and shushed the clandestine discussion. 

The Doctor and Rose retook their seats, Mrs. Parker asking, “Did you have a nice trot?” Both nodded yes. 

“Sherry?” offered Mr. Benchley, and was refused, after which silence reigned for a few moments.

Unable to sustain the tension, Miss Millay’s face crinkled up with impish delight and she blurted, “We have found you out, the pair of you!”

Rose felt herself freeze. She wondered how the Doctor was going to handle their being ‘made’ as aliens. Well, one alien, and one very much out-of-place human. Would he invite these people onto the Tardis for a tour? That really would be the end of her romantic evening, wouldn’t it. 

Mr. Benchley continued, “Yes, the ladies here thought you might be an international Lothario, Doctor, or perhaps a daring anarchist on the lam from the coppers, accompanied by your inamorata. But I have sussed you out.”

The Doctor looked intrigued. He leaned comfortably back in his chair, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Do tell, Sir, what have you discovered?”

Miss Millay broke in gleefully. “That you are a pair of aspiring actors, who have given a most entertaining, if not quite convincing enough, audition this evening! And I say, ‘Bravo’!”

The Doctor sprung up and grabbed Mr. Benchley’s hand, to shake it. “Congratulations! Quite right! Quite right! You are a discerning man, Sir, yes, very clever! Astonishing powers of perception! Rose, aren’t you surprised they discovered us so quickly?”

Rose took the opportunity to get on her feet, just in case they were about to have to run for it. “No, but I’m afraid it’s my fault--I make a rather poor Society Lady.”

“Not at all, my dear” Mr. Benchley kindly admonished, “don’t think that for a moment.” He stood and gave Rose a bow. “It’s been my pleasure to dine with such a fine ‘society lady,’ as you put it.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Benchley, your kindness has been, so kind, and we are forever in your debt, with our, lots of indebtedness,” Rose put on, and gave a little curtsey.

Mrs. Parker tossed her napkin disgustedly onto the table. She announced, “On that note, I shall conduct this symphony to a close. Edna, perhaps you would like to take charge of our brash thespians and see if Bohemians, Incorporated might want them for those Follies they’re getting up down at the Greenwich Village Theater.”

Miss Millay was bubbling with mirth, and holding out her hand to Rose, said, “Come along, thespians!”

“It was such a pleasure, really, thank you, and thank you--for the oysters--and…” the Doctor called out over his shoulder, as he had to hustle away to keep up with the rapidly retreating pair of girls. 

They didn’t wait for the elevator, they just sprung the roof’s emergency stairwell door and ran, laughing, the three of them, down ten flights of stairs and into the street.

Stopping to catch their breath, Vincent exclaimed, “That was wonderful! Haven’t seen Dottie so ‘had’ by anyone, ever. They can be such a horror, those two, though they mean well. Having to hobnob is the only downside to my being the ‘new sensation’; well, that and the poverty.” She grinned. “Anyways, stick by me the rest of the night and you shall have some real fun.” 

Even though it wasn’t the hot date she had imagined, Rose found herself perfectly content locking arms with the Doctor on one side, and Vincent on the other, agreeing she would enjoy a tour of Vincent’s version of New York City, very much.

They made their way across Times Square to a stairway leading underground. “New subway stop! Just opened in January,” Vincent said. “Train runs all the way from South Ferry to Central Park, now.” Walking down into the freshly tiled station, she noted, “Doesn’t even smell like a stable, yet.” She held out her hand to stop them for a moment, and asked, “You do have American money for the fares?”

The Doctor searched about in his pockets and gave them an apologetic shrug.

Rose gaped at him, and asked, with great wonderment, "How'd you plan on payin' for dinner?"

"Didn’t know where we’d land, mystery tour and all that--figured on winging it," he answered, distractedly still fishing; after a moment, his face lit up. "Ah, here’s this." He pulled out an old air mail stamp. "Twenty-four cents U.S. Postage," he read. “This should cover all of us.”

"Give it here," Vincent said. She walked over to a booth containing a rather sour-faced man, and began speaking to him.

Rose and the Doctor couldn't hear the conversation, but they saw the man's demeanor soften, and by the time Vincent turned to come back to them, he was laughing, and she was victoriously holding up three subway tickets. 

"Here's your stamp back.” She handed it to the Doctor. “Whaddayouknow, he wouldn't take it! He is so sweet--" She turned to give him a wave and he waved back. 

A downtown train was approaching. Vincent burbled happily on as they surrendered their tickets and boarded. "I do have such a good time in New York; it's fun to treat people as if they were human beings just like yourself. They like it, and come right back at you with it. I picked up a spilled bundle for a woman the other day--her arms were so full she could hardly bend--and carried it for her a couple of blocks, and she blessed me as if I were an angel, kept saying how kind I was, and that it was things like that, happening only once or twice in a lifetime, that made life worth living."

"She didn't think a stranger would be nice to her more than once or twice her whole life? That's terrible!" Rose exclaimed, with a genuinely stricken look on her face.

"You're cute," Vincent replied, and leaned in to place a gentle kiss on Rose’s cheek.

The Doctor cleared his throat. "Ahem." 

"Haven't seen you kissing her tonight," Vincent shot right back at him, "and I think someone should. You’re very kissable," she said, turning back to Rose.

"You jealous?" Rose teased the Doctor, taking it all in good fun.

Catching Rose's attention, when Vincent looked away for a moment, the Doctor began nodding toward the poetess with his head, rolling his eyes and raising his eyebrows. What he was trying to indicate, Rose had no idea. 

Giving up trying to read him, she said, "Speakin' a kissin', check out those two. Been goin' at it since we got on." She directed their attention to a couple at the back of the car who were obviously making out under a man's overcoat. 

When the pair decided to come up for air, Vincent looked closely then exclaimed, in a shocked tone, "Norma!"

The girl looked up and gave a guilty grin. The much older man next to her waved and bellowed down the car, "Hallo, Edna!"

Vincent jumped to her feet and walked toward them, grabbing onto hand straps to steady herself in the rocking train. The other girl got up and met her halfway. They were notably of a similar height and build, and coloring. As soon as they came together, they began having an animated, whispered conversation. There were many glances back in the direction of the strange man, Vincent’s looks rather hostile, Norma’s flirtatious. Finally, upon arriving at some sort of truce, Vincent hugged the girl, and came back to her seat.

“Well that was my sister, Norma, putting an interesting twist to the evening,” she announced.

Not wanting to pry, the Doctor and Rose both held their tongues. 

“Christopher Street! Christopher Street!” the attendant announced when the doors opened at the next station. Norma and her beaux got off, Vincent giving a half-hearted wave and a sigh.

“This would have been our stop, I wanted to show you Washington Square, but now my mood’s soured, and I’ve promised not to go home until dawn.” Not receiving the prying and digging she was expecting, she volunteered, “Norma’s going with that–married person–and I’m to meet her at home at dawn, to be her alibi. I’m to say she was with me all night, and we fell asleep at a girlfriend’s. Oh, I don’t care, I’m not letting it spoil my fun. I’ve stayed up all night many times before, and I’ll do it again." She paused, considering her options. "I know! I’ll play a homeless vagabond. We must buy some sausages and beer and tie them up in a kerchief for me, at the end of a stick.”

Rose barely stifled a snort, and braced herself for a possible new companion. Surely the Doctor would invite Vincent onboard the Tardis now. She realized she wouldn’t mind such a development, at all, in fact she was rather hoping for it.

The Doctor surprised her, by making a completely different type of suggestion. “Isn’t there a beach over on Staten Island, and a ferry that runs to it all night?” he asked Vincent.

“Yes," she replied. "Well, the good beach, with the Ferris Wheel, that’s too far to walk–but there is a smaller sort of beach that might do, not too far from the landing. And it would have a great deal of driftwood, if we wanted a fire.”

“Then I propose we stay on to the end of the line, and embark on a free maritime excursion to the beach. Rose is always asking for a beach–“

“Not in the middle of the night, in a cocktail dress–“Rose interrupted.

“–and, Rose,” he interrupted her back, scolding her a little with his tone, “wouldn't you like a nice bonfire, absolutely you would, and oh, Rose! You'll have a stupendous view of the Statue of Liberty! Can’t miss that, Rose. Vincent’s right, we must stop for provisions. We’ll need provisions. Sausages, beer, fruit, bread, cheese, the staples of the wanderer! Putting them at the end of a stick won’t be necessary, I'll carry the bags.” The Doctor was literally bouncing up and down by the end of this speech, overtaken with excitement. “What say you, shall we tramp ‘til dawn?” 

“Oh, let us do just that!” Vincent pressed Rose, grabbing and squeezing her arm enthusiastically.

Rose laughed, giving in, “Alright, but, yeah, no sticks.”

“South Ferry, end of the line!”

The trio hopped out onto the platform and climbed back to the surface. A clock was tolling eleven. Even at this hour, people and vehicles were still moving about. As they walked the short distance toward the ferry dock, the Doctor kept his eyes open for a possible source of snacks. All the pushcarts had gone home for the day, but by a stroke of luck there was one small grocery still open. 

An older couple, evidently the owners, greeted the Doctor as he bounded into the store, and they began discussing what he wanted. After a few words, the Doctor realized they were having difficulty communicating in English, so he switched to something Vincent didn’t recognize. 

She asked Rose, “What language is that?”

With the Tardis translating, Rose wouldn’t have known he was speaking in anything besides English if Vincent hadn’t mentioned it. “Italian?” she guessed, weakly.

Vincent shook her head. “That’s not Italian.”

“Yiddish!” the Doctor called over his shoulder.

The couple were thrilled to speak to the Doctor in their own tongue. The three of them embarked on an animated conversation that began with gossip about the Russian revolution, then moved on to the best sights in Kiev for a visitor to take in, then to fishing opportunities on the Dnieper river, and, finally, herring--especially the wonders and virtues of pickled herring. To his chagrin, the Doctor discovered, they did not have any for sale.

There was, however, a large wheel of cheese on the counter, which he pointed to and asked if they could have a sample. Motioning the girls over, the shop owners knifed out chunks for them all to taste. 

“Mmm!” the Doctor exclaimed, smacking the cheese around on his palate. “Fresh, local dairy, one of the wonders of the universe,” he said, this time speaking English, for Vincent’s benefit. “This is classic cheddar, made from milled curds, not stirred.” He closed his eyes, his attention disappearing into the flavors, then declared, “Been aged in a cave. I’d say for oh, at least two years. Notes of nuts and mushrooms. Brilliant!” Addressing the couple he said, “I’ll absolutely have some of that.”

“Doctor,” Rose asked him, as the store owners cut a piece of cheese and carefully wrapped it in cloth, “what are you going to do if you come back lactose intolerant some day?”

“The Tardis would never do that to me, Rose.” He replied. “It would be inexcusable cruelty.”

He began pointing to other things in the shop to add to their order: a loaf of coarse bread, a few bottles of beer, a small hunk of dry salami.

Rose could sense Vincent growing tense next to her, and asked her, “Bet you’re wondering how we’re gonna pay for all this stuff?”

“Yes.” Vincent let out an embarrassed chuckle. “I was.”

Rose thought a moment. She slid off her expensive head band then went over and knocked the Doctor on the shoulder with it.

“Oh, payment! Right! Thank you, Rose.” He showed it to the couple. 

Vincent saw their faces become overtaken by astonishment, then they were shaking their heads and holding up their hands, refusing to accept it. The Doctor cajoled and charmed them for another minute or two, and they finally gave in. Taking it up, the man studied the headband carefully under a bright light that hung over the register, paying special attention to the diamond on the pendant. Suddenly the man let out a great “whoop” and the pair began hugging one another. They ran from behind the counter and hugged everyone. The woman grabbed Rose and kissed her on her forehead, where there was a small, red mark where the headband had been irritating her skin, anyways.

“Take more! Take more! Take it all!” the man began to say, and fetching a couple of empty crates from the back, he loaded them up with more bread, entire lengths of salami, and several more bottles of beer, then the entire remains of the wheel of cheese. He instructed his wife to fill two paper bags with fresh apples and pears.

“We can’t carry any more, that’s enough, really!” Rose protested.

Vincent gave her a startled look. “Rose, you speak Yiddish, too?”

Russians!, thought Vincent. Trading stolen jewels for food and passage. She was more convinced than ever that these were a pair of radical saboteurs. She made a note to alert John Reed as to their presence in New York, figuring he must know who exactly they were, having spent all of last year covering the Bolshevik revolution for The Masses magazine. 

“May you live to lead your children and children’s children to the wedding canopy!” the man thanked them. “We had not sold enough today to close yet, but now we shall close for a week!” 

“You’re not closing the store for a week!” his wife yelled, then admonished him, “One musn’t eat the challah before saying the blessing.”

The husband came back with, “Sometimes a penny spent is better than a penny saved!” and then there were a string of pithy proverbs, fading as the Doctor, Rose and Vincent retreated with their haul. 

A line of automobiles, work trucks, and even one mule-drawn wagon were lined up to board the ferry, along with a hodgepodge of foot passengers. The ferry came along about twenty minutes later, belching soot and puffing steam, its whistle blowing.

Vincent suggested they spend their passage on the upper deck, where they could get them away from the prominent smells of horse manure and spilled motor oil that permeated downstairs. They gathered at a spot along the starboard bow rail to watch the departure. The clock ashore chimed midnight, and the ferry surged and chugged away out into the Hudson, towards the East Bay and Staten Island.

In a few minutes the Doctor instructed Rose be on the look out for the Statue of Liberty. They were near enough, but could not see it well, as it was shrouded in darkness. The monument's only distinguishable feature was her forehead, lit by a bright lamp shining out from the windows along her crown. The Doctor still gave an informed narration for this mostly-invisible point of interest, giving the work’s original name--“La liberté éclairant le monde”--and explaining the only person climbing up her interior cast iron spiral staircase today would have been the resident lighthouse keeper, for the statue was meant just for that purpose--as a lighthouse.

Vincent thought they should get out of the wind, and said she wanted a drink. They sat down cross-legged in a circle together, the canvas panels of the railings shielding them a little and helping them keep warm. Vincent produced a pocket knife to open three of the beers, and passed them round. “To liberty!” she toasted.

“Liberty! Yes! Freedom! Yes!” An exotic yellow-skinned woman with masses of black curls spoke as she approached them. Without invitation, she plopped down between Vincent and the Doctor, who kindly made more room for her. “My people were slaves for five hundred years, but now, here I am, free, in America!” she expounded, banging her fist down on the deck and then sweeping her hand out to take in the horizon. She was young, with voluminous striped skirts of a woven homespun fabric, a flowing blouse and thick quilted shawl over her head and shoulders. “I am Maria,” she offered. “I can read your future!” she declared.

“Oh yes, please!” Rose instantly agreed. 

“Not me,” Vincent said, “I would not want to know.”

“That is too bad, I am hungry and my family would like me to bring home a few coins. Papa is so very ill right now. Please, Miss, you are lucky and rich, you should let me read your palm,” she pushed.

“Here you go, Maria,” the Doctor said, pulling one of their bags into the middle of the circle, “we’ve no money, but have a sack of pears.”

Maria made a disgusted face. “I don’t eat them.”

“Me neither,” the Doctor said, and gingerly pulled the bag back and out of his sight, with an expression to match Maria’s.

“But here,” Vincent interjected, “we’ve beer, bread, sausage, cheese and apples, too! You must enjoy those things? We can fix you up a bundle. Will that do?” 

“Yes, that suffices,” Maria said, though with a bit of a pout, added, “you sure you have no money?”

“I have a quarter,” replied Vincent honestly. “But I need it to get home!” 

“You only need five cents, and I have change!” Maria declared.

“My friends are riding on my quarter, too, I think,” Vincent countered.

“Then you only need fifteen cents. Give me the quarter, and I shall give you fifteen cents, and keep ten for my poor father.” Maria held out her hand.

The Doctor protested. “Here, here, we haven’t heard any fortunes yet! Tell mine, then we’ll see if it rates coins.”

Maria turned to him and took up his right hand, turning it over to see his palm. She studied it quietly for a few moments, then said, “There is much mystery here! Lines written and re-written… So much hidden! You are like the night, we cannot know you! Your lines are all in the wrong places, and they swirl like a madman’s. There is nothing I can tell you!” she insisted, her voice growing in drama and volume, until she roughly tossed his hand away as if it would burn her.

The Doctor’s mouth was hanging open; Vincent was clapping. 

“Bravo! Another stellar performance tonight!” Vincent cried. “I’ll give ten cents for that!” 

“Yes, very good, Maria! Quite right!” the Doctor laughed.

Vincent proffered the quarter to Maria, who returned fifteen cents in change, as promised.

“Vincent next,” Rose said.

Maria took Vincent’s palm out into the circle and began stroking it with her fingertips. “You are like the Sun, so passionate, that is good! But no man will have all your love; you are always having another romance. And you spend too much money.” 

Vincent snorted at that one. “I haven’t any to spend!” she protested. “And I’m very careful of it if I do! I keep a record of every cent!”

“No, it is here,” Maria said, “you are not careful, and there is a lot of money, but then it is all gone. You should listen to me, I know, it is here, in your hand!”

“Alright, alright, go on,” Vincent said, amused.

“No children… Difficulties later in life, I am sorry.” She patted Vincent’s hand and released it. 

“You didn’t see anything nice?” Vincent cried.

“Oh, yes, but I am here to save your from these tragedies!” Maria declared. “You must listen!”

Rose was clasping her hands tightly now, not at all sure she wanted her palm read, after seeing Maria in action. 

“Come on, Rose, I’ve subjected myself to this beating, now it’s time for yours! Be a sport!” Vincent prodded.

Rose grudgingly held out her palm. As Maria studied it, a smile broke across her face. “Ah! You are Aphrodite herself! Deep affection. Lucky, very lucky. Long, rich life with the man you love. Such a happy marriage, yes? And a boy child! No worries.”

“Really?” Rose said. "Didn't think I'd be the winner!"

Maria hesitated, as if she could not decide if she should mention something else she saw in Rose's hand.

"Go on," Rose urged her. 

Maria lifted a long, slender forefinger high in the air, then brought it down gravely to a blank area of Rose's palm, where all the lines broke before taking up again on the other side. “All these things shall come to pass, yes," she intoned, "but first, tragedy, great loss. Grief and parting. Nothing can prevent this. I am sorry.”

Rose gasped and yanked her hand back.

“That’ll be all, Maria,” the Doctor said gruffly. “Stand up... now hold out your arms... Vincent, give her the things we promised... Maria, say goodnight now please.” He sent her skulking away, her skirts holding several pounds of their food and drink, a quarter tucked securely between her breasts.

Vincent could see the Doctor and Rose were both shaken, but the darkness that had suddenly manifested itself about the Doctor shocked her. Composed of a deep gloom coupled with barely-contained rage, it was clear that this storm inside him had always been there, ready to show forth through what must be merely a light veneer of happiness.

He did not look at them, instead he turned away, saying brusquely, "I'll be back," and headed astern at a near-run. He soon had disappeared behind a maze of bulkheads, where Rose and Vincent could no longer track him.

 

❦❦


	4. Cupid's Scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some real progress is made around a bonfire as a disappointed Rose calls the Doctor out, and then Vincent does, too. Features an excerpt from Millay's poem "Renascence."

Cupid’s Scar

Rose was crestfallen. For the Doctor, running from aliens, running from the police, running from Daleks, even, no big deal. Well, not that big a deal, not generally. But this constant running from his issues--major deal. It had become insufferable. A few hot tears welled up in her eyes.

Vincent gently reached for Rose’s hand, and held it. After a few moments, she asked, “Where do you think he went?”

“Off hiding somewhere, hiding from having to deal with this--” She gestured to herself and where the fortune teller had just been sitting. "Hiding from having to deal with me."

“That reading is what's upset him. He’s afraid he won’t get to marry you, that it won’t be him,” Vincent said. "That's what I think."

Rose gave a short, bitter laugh, and rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t want to marry me. You’ve seen how he is. We’ve been together for ages and he’s never even properly kissed me. Thought tonight he was plannin’ on it… Sod it, I probably imagined the whole thing. Wouldn’t be the first time,” she finished, picking disgustedly with her free hand at some loose threads on her cloak, head down.

Vincent just sat and held her hand, petting it for awhile, in silence. 

Rose continued. “Sometimes I think I’ve got ‘im all figured out--and then I find I don’t. He’s…complex. Frankly, I’m gettin’ tired of it. I’m about this close to askin’ him 'what’s yer major malfunction?'” She held up a weary thumb and forefinger, a centimeter apart.

The ferry began blowing its steam whistle, signaling imminent arrival at the Staten Island landing. There was no sign of the Doctor.

“Come on,” Rose said, standing, “let’s get this junk downstairs.” There was still too much for the two of them to carry comfortably. They redistributed some of it between the crates, and found they could manage everything but the Doctor’s precious giant wheel of cheese. As Rose was glaring down at it, she heard him behind her.

“I can take the cheese,” he said, softly.

Rose didn’t turn to look at him, simply asked, “Where ya’ been?”

“I’ll take the apples, too, give them here.” She turned and stacked the two items, one on top of the other, in his outstretched arms. “I went up to the wheelhouse," he weakly explained. "Captain’s a fine fellow, let me steer, and blow the whistle!” 

Rose ignored his gambit. She felt sick to death with his cuteness and flirting. “I don’t fancy on carryin’ all this crap all night," she complained, letting the crate she was holding pull her shoulders forward in an exaggerated manner, and then allowing it to bounce heavily against her thighs as she clumped down the stairs to the lower deck, the beer bottles inside clanging dangerously. She also, for effect, was heaving a series of deep, irritated sighs. The Doctor let her have her whinge, but when they got to the bottom, he began handing things out of Rose’s and Vincent’s crates to everyone they passed.

“Not as hungry as I thought I might be,” he explained, and Vincent nodded she wasn’t either, though she did hold back a pear for herself, and before it was all given away, the Doctor did break off a very large hunk of his cheese, which he managed to stuff into his left trouser pocket. And an apple.

People were glad to be given the food, and one weather-beaten woman in a rough burlap shawl even burst into tears when Vincent handed her the remaining bag of apples. 

“This way,” Vincent said. She led them off the landing then turned south, heading down a grassy waste land that bordered the rocky, silty shoreline. They walked in silence, which Vincent sensed was an uncommon and sad state for the Doctor to be in.

When they came to a large swathe of small, smooth pebbles, with a dark night sky above, and the only the sound was of the lapping waves, Vincent declared they’d arrived at a good enough spot. “I’m going to go gather wood, you two find us something to sit on?” She wanted to leave them alone, thinking maybe they’d work out whatever was going on between them in ten minutes' time.

The Doctor drug over an enormous piece of driftwood. Rose was amazed he could lift one end, much less move the entire thing, but he did. She was reminded suddenly that he was not human. Glimpsing it always caught her by surprise. It was something easy, maybe too easy, to forget. She wondered if that might be the source of most of their misunderstandings.

The Doctor was the first one to speak up, another surprise. “Rose, that reading was nothing but a cheap circus act. Twiddle-twaddle! Bet she was about to say you're cursed, but she'll reverse it for you, in exchange for your ear-bobs. No one can tell the future that way. Not really.” His words sounded too much like bravado. 

Was he frightened? Yes, Rose thought he was. She plopped down onto the beach, letting her thick velvet cloak cushion her from the damp rocks, and leaned back against the piece of driftwood. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in, and out. It was obvious--Vincent had been right. Something so simple. She suddenly understood the entire arc of their relationship, and knew that it had come down to her being the brave one, tonight. She was so used to him being the one who knew things. It never occurred to her she might know more about this. About them. That he might need a tour guide.

Now or never, she thought. She waited until he was relatively still, then, pulling from a store of courage she had been keeping lord knows where, she softly said, "I think you want that. I think you want all of that.”

“What?” the Doctor asked, stalling for time. But he turned to face her directly, and she knew from his expression that he knew perfectly well what she meant.

“That picture she painted for us. Happy family. Loving husband, loving wife. Baby makes three. You want that. With me." She made herself hold his gaze, refusing to look away. 

His next move stunned her. Instead of denying it or trying to change the subject, he came and fell to his knees before her. Taking her hands in his hands, he simply said, “Yes.”

Rose searched his eyes with hers. “So I don’t understand!” she implored him. “Why can't you ask me? Why can't you want somethin', and then have it, just because it's nice, just because it'd make you happy? Tell me!”

He flung himself down beside her, and began picking up pebbles and throwing them frustratedly at the shoreline. She let him stew. After a few minutes he finally offered, “I had a family, once, you know.”

Rose fought down her own emotional responses. She didn’t want to make this moment about her and miss hearing, finally, anything about him, something real. “Did they die?”

He sighed. “Yes.” A moment later he threw one last rock, and confessed, “Oh, Rose, it wasn’t even all that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Love, Time Lord style. Whole thing was structured. I wasn’t around much. It was… more like business transactions... No passion to it at all... But I did love my granddaughter.”

When he did not elaborate, she inquired, very gently, “Can you tell me what happened?”

The Doctor jumped to his feet. “What always bloody happens,” he said. He turned to her, his arms hanging at his sides, in a way that made him appear so defeated. “And now I want to try again, I do want it, Rose, I want it all, so much, with you, always with you, but it can't work, Rose.”

“Why not?” she challenged him. “How do you know?”

He began pacing now, at a manic rate, pulling at his hair, gesticulating, rattling off a list of what she began to feel were simply pathetic excuses.

“For one thing, the age difference, not just May-December is it, by about, oh a thousand years give or take! And we shouldn’t even try to have children, far too dangerous for you, even if it was possible, which I doubt, and then, how do you suppose I could be rappelling down some space station access tube with a baby strapped to my chest, and I’d be distracted, Rose. I have a job to do, after all! You know that! I have responsibilities! You’d want me to stay home and I’d be supposed to be stopping some tri-planetary contagion or something and then the baby would get Barillian Blue Spot and that would be the end of his hair, for good. Then there’s the whole your room or mine. Rose, I'm sorry, but I don’t want your things in my room, you throw your clothing everywhere, I’ve seen how you do, make-up do-hickies left out on the bathroom counter, staining the marble, towels not hung up properly, no, it won't do! Not to mention the constant potential dying, mutilation, screaming mummies, watching your brain be taken over by hostile pig people--”

“Hostile pig people? When was that? Doctor, stop pacing and sit down. DOCTOR!” Rose commanded him, and again, she was surprised he obeyed, kneeling in front of her once more. 

“You've not seen them yet, but that’s not the point,” he said peevishly. 

"I wish you'd get to the bloody point," she told him.

“Rose, I’d worry every day, I do worry, now, every day, I’m so worried sometimes I can’t breathe. When bad things happen to you, it’s my fault, don’t you see? If you were unhappy, if I made you unhappy, and it was my fault--”

"Lots 'a things've already been your fault--” she interrupted, forcing his eyes to meet hers, “--and lots 'a things that've happened to you are my fault.” She let that sink in. "If you’re unhappy, I feel like that's my fault, too, don't you get it? Maybe that's the way love is, yeah? Maybe we could let our whole lives be, like, each other’s fault...”

He rocked forward, and wrapped his arms about her, allowing his head to fall onto her shoulder. They just held on together, until after a minute he glumly said, “Vincent won’t be happy. Maria was right. Sad ending to her story.”

Exasperated, Rose pulled back, forcing him to sit up. “So what?”

Vincent, having made herself scarce as long as she could stand it, was coming back. Rose nodded towards her approaching figure, still just out of hearing range, and said to the Doctor, “Let’s ask her, shall we? What she thinks about her 'Destiny 'a Doom". It’s her life, after all.” Rose began to stand.

“Rose, don’t--” he said, reaching up to grab her cloak and pull her back down.

She made it to her feet and called out, “Hey, Vincent!”

“Hallo!” Vincent replied. She closed the distance, dumping down the bundle of kindling she'd collected.

The Doctor was up now, too, entreating, “I really don’t think you should--”

“Vincent, the Doctor and I have a question for you. Doctor, stop it!” She had to bat his hand off her arm, where he was still tugging at her insistently.

“Now I’m intrigued,” Vincent said. “Ask away.”

The Doctor sighed, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Let’s say Maria was right,” Rose began. “Let’s say your life’s gonna get real hard at some point. Maybe you won’t be happy. Maybe you’ll be rich, but then you’ll be poor again, and that will make it even worse. Maybe all sorts of bad things will happen to you.”

“Is there a moral to this story?” Vincent dryly urged.

“My point is, if you knew all that was gonna’ happen, would you change who you are now? Like, would you quit writing, give up on New York? Change your friends? Be more cautious?”

Vincent threw her head back and began laughing, a deep, joyful, laugh. She lifted her arms to the heavens, and gave her answer. “Let us be fools and love forever!”

Still laughing, she gathered them on either side of her, and began delivering a lecture she had prepared while she was out gathering wood. “Never be afraid of tremendous things, I say. I have a feeling both of you are quite familiar with tremendous things, already, so why be timid with one another? Why, it’s only among tremendous things that I feel at ease. No, I’m not frightened of my future. Let it come! What could you do to stop it? Now quit being silly. Build us a raging bonfire to match our hearts, and then I must see you kiss. Yes, Doctor, I said kiss! Kiss your Rose! I demand it! Erato demands it! Calliope demands it! Polyhymnia demands it! All the Muses of poetry demand it!"

“Bonfire, right,” he said, and busied himself immediately making a perfect tee-pee of kindling. 

Rose and Vincent made themselves comfortable and watched him, with amusement, as he headed out over and over again into the dark, coming back with armfuls of wood. As the bonfire grew higher, Rose asked him, "Planning on signaling someone on, say, Proxima Centauri?"

"You know that's not a planet, Rose, that's a star, no one is on a star," he answered. Stopping to see that the top of the pile had reached well above his waist, he said, "Let me pop 'round the back, out of the wind, and pull these matches out of my pocket..."

Rose was sure she heard the sonic. "You won't get your Eagle Scout honors if you can't light it with one match, you know," she called to him.

Soon there was a roaring fire, and he had to pull their seating about two meters farther away than he'd originally set it, or they'd have all been roasted in short order. 

The Doctor and Rose cuddled up together, inside her cloak.The heat from the fire and the dancing patterns of the flames were soothing. Vincent was still awaiting the great kiss, but as she was eating the pear she'd saved, and the Doctor had started in on his apple and a bit of cheese, she figured now was not the time to push the matter.

The Doctor offered Rose some of his snack, but she refused. Leaning against him, she sunk down lower and lower, until her head was in his lap. She stared into the fire, enjoying the slight movements of the Doctor’s body as he chewed, and then the low tones of his voice resonating against her ear as he talked with Vincent about something…something about Antares…and scorpions...or Scorpios...

The Doctor absentmindedly stroked Rose's hair back from her forehead as she slept. 

With the conviction of the young and hopeful, and the audacity of all idealists, Vincent began pressing him about his intentions toward Rose.

"She thinks you don't want her. She wants to know, how did she say it--'What's your major malfunction'."

He drew himself up and said, "I'm not malfunctioning."

Vincent just raised an eyebrow, and waited.

He looked down at Rose with a bitter sigh. "You both expect it to be so easy. You think there's happy ever after you can order up like Chinese take-away. You're young, you don't know what I know."

"If I'm so naive, explain it to me."

"You see your whole life ahead of you, all the exciting possibilities, and you think you're free to just wander about, picking whichever you like? Let me warn you, every choice you make, that sound you hear in the back of your head? That's the sound of a door slamming shut behind you. You keep turning this way or that, one way or another, until one day you're no longer choosing a bloody thing, you're just being driven along the only path you have left. And the real kick to your teeth comes when you realize maybe, just maybe, this had been waiting for you, all along, and you can see how you've been trapped the whole time. You can hear the universe laughing at you, because you never had a single moment of actual free will."

"Didn't take you for a Calvinist," she jabbed at him, irritated now. "But let me correct your misconception of me. I'm being driven mad these days trying to make money. I have my mother and sister with me here now, and I'm putting another sister through college. Their welfare is entirely on my shoulders. The little successes I've enjoyed have only added to their expectations, though they would never say so. In fact, I've expectations laid at my feet by everyone! Readers, editors, sycophants, friends who have helped me along the way, they all insist I soar to heights I'm not sure I'm even capable of! Yet I must go forward. So, Sir, you have to yield that I am not such the ingenue that I can't understand you."

"I am sorry," he immediately apologized. "I just... I need a break."

"Then take one."

"I can't, I have responsibilities. I'm responsible for the whole bloody universe," he finished.

"You just feel that way now," Vincent countered.

"No, really, I am," he groaned.

Vincent could feel the sadness, the isolation, emanating from him. Those were things she was not unfamiliar with, any more than she was unacquainted with crushing burdens. But something still didn't make sense.

"What is it, really? What are you not saying?"

"Can I quote you?" he asked. Keeping his voice low, the Doctor recited:

I saw and heard, and knew at last  
The How and Why of all things, past,  
And present, and forevermore.  
The Universe, cleft to the core,  
Lay open to my probing sense,  
That, sickening, I would fain pluck thence  
But could not, --nay! but needs must suck  
At the great wound, and could not pluck  
My lips away till I had drawn  
All venom out. -- Ah, fearful pawn:  
For my omniscience paid I toll  
In infinite remorse of soul...

 

His breath hitching with emotion, he stopped. Knowing they were finally getting to the bottom of things, Vincent continued:

And all the while, for every grief,  
Each suffering, I craved relief  
With individual desire;  
Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fire  
About a thousand people crawl;  
Perished with each, --then mourned for all.

 

The Doctor was crying. Actual crying of actual tears. Rose was beginning to stir, and he frantically willed himself to get a grip, to keep from waking her up all the way.

"A pawn, that's exactly what I am. I’ve been involved in atrocities, Vincent. I can’t stand to remember, but I do, vividly, every time I close my eyes, and sometimes when I'm awake, too. I'm not who I used to be. I'll never be innocent again. I can’t dump that on Rose; can't subject her to the horror, she wouldn't get it, it would destroy her goodness, her innocence, and if she lost those things because of me..."

"You were in the War," Vincent guessed.

He nodded. "My life is war. Perpetual war."

Vincent took him in. She saw him tenderly caressing Rose, pulling the cloak back up over her bare shoulder when it shifted. She didn't see a jaded man sitting there, someone perpetually at war.

"There may always be war, but there are other eternal things. There's the stars--"

"You hope," he interjected.

"--and goodness, goodness is perpetual. You can't diminish it, certainly not in her," she gestured to Rose. "And there's love, real passionate, sexual love, now that," she grinned, "is perpetual."

"My people would not have approved..." he replied, with some humor, letting her know at least a few of her words had reached him.

"Here's my answer to that objection: I'll recite for you. From far more inspiring verse than my gloomy stuff. This is translated from the Latin--it’s by Catullus, you know him?"

"Yes, I do, actually, quite well," the Doctor smiled.

"Then you'll have heard this, but take it as happy advice from me to you:

"  
Let us live, my Doctor, let us love,  
and all the words of the old, and so moral,  
may they be worth less than nothing to us!  
Suns may set, and suns may rise again:  
but when our brief light has set,  
night is one long everlasting sleep.  
Give me a thousand kisses, a hundred more,  
another thousand, and another hundred,  
and, when we’ve counted up the many thousands,  
confuse them so as not to know them all,  
so that no enemy may cast an evil eye,  
by knowing that there were so many kisses.

 

"And I warn you, if you don’t kiss Rose, I’m going to try! She's an angel." Vincent smugly rested her case.

 

❦❦


	5. Psyche's Bower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor pleases the Muses, and Rose finally gets to take things in hand. A top hat is lost at sea.

Psyche’s Bower

The conversation around the bonfire had turned into a poetry slam. The Doctor was proud of a surprisingly philosophical haiku about cheese he'd composed, but Vincent delivered the coup de grace: a suggestive sonnet featuring roses, of course. She could tell her final stanzas’ talk of dew drops and the paths they might take rolling down rose petals had made the Doctor fidgety. 

After several increasingly naughty limericks were exchanged, Vincent looked at her watch and announced the next ferry was due to return soon. The first light of dawn would be coming within the hour; it was time to get back to the dock, and home.

The Doctor nudged Rose. “Wakey-wakey.”

Sitting up slowly, rubbing at her eyes, she seemed disoriented. “Didn’t think I was asleep--thought I was watchin’ the fire.”

“Nope,” the Doctor assured her. “Gone a-wanderin’, Land of Nod.”

“I thought you was nudgin’ me t’ ask me ‘bout that flower. In the fire.”

The Doctor helped her up; she was a little shaky on her feet as they started their walk back.

Steadying her with an arm around her waist, he asked, “What flower?”

“I guess I was just dreamin’, but it was really sad. There was this big yellow flower in the fire, like a lily. It wasn’t burnin’ though, ‘cause there was a dome over it--like over a fancy clock, t’ keep the dust off?”

“Go on.” His voice and his arm had grown tighter.

“First there was shooting--startled me. I was gonna jump up and ask you what's goin' on, but then the flames went up really high from the fire, and the dome sorta--melted away--and just like that the flower burned up. It was gone in a second. Less than a second. That’s what was so sad. I felt like I shoulda’ been able to save it. I wanted to. It was gorgeous. So real. Like I said, thought you was goin’ to say somethin’ ‘bout it when you woke me up.”

Vincent, listening, offered, “You were mesmerised! I’ve heard of swamis in India, who stare into flames, to see visions.”

"I suspect you were experiencing a metaphorical representation of my own ideations at the start of your REM cycle," he countered.

The Doctor stole a look down at Rose. She had just given a good description of a Gallifreyan flower that was associated with the premonition of death, in his culture. And the dome--emblematic of the citadel of the Time Lords, was it not. He had not been there, on his planet when it died, but he had imagined it vividly, many times: what it would have felt like to stand atop Mount Solace, and watch first hand the consequences of his actions. What it looked like to murder your entire species, and destroy your own civilisation. Burning, then gone, in an instant. Then time locked so that they had never been. 

Had he been imagining that again, in his mind's eye, as Rose lay in his lap, his fingers brushing her temples? Perhaps he had. No matter how close they eventually became, he would never want her to experience even one percent of the pain of the Time War. He would have to be more careful.

He was also intrigued, and growing increasingly excited, as he contemplated the ramifications of a possible psychic link. If Rose could connect to him and read him, without his intentionally contacting her mind, then what might develop once they were truly intimate? Over the next few days, who knew how deep a bond might be possible? 

The tops of his ears turned red, thinking about that, about what he had decided he would let happen, in, oh, just a few hours, if he was lucky? Then was what was likely to keep happening tomorrow. Nothing to do but that, except some kip, of course, and a fry-up might be nice. Come to think of it, his date book was free for the rest of the week. Hell, the next few months were clear of commitments. In fact, he could not think of anywhere he had to be, ever again--

“Doctor,” Rose repeated. 

“Hmm?” he replied. Looking up he realized he was in line for the ferry.

“Vincent was asking if we need help getting back to our hotel.”

“No, no, memorized the map before we left this evening, know right where we parked. Our luggage, yes, parked our luggage. Always lots of luggage. Right, Rose?”

“Yeah, luggage,” she agreed. “Like, he’s got dozens of the same suit.”

“But only one, perfectly perfect coat, Rose.” He sighed. “I miss my coat...”

“I’m glad you wore somethin’ else for a change. I got to see you in a bow tie!”

“Bow ties are ridiculous.”

“Not as ridiculous as that hat.”

“I wondered when you’d start making fun of the hat.”

Vincent pointed to the Doctor’s maligned head-wear and said, “Hand it over!”

The Doctor gladly gave it to her, setting it atop her head at a jaunty angle. It was so large it completely covered one side of her face, threatening to swallow her head. 

At some point after they boarded, the top hat was mysteriously lost at sea. Whether the Doctor had, in a Ninja-like maneuver, knocked it off Vincent’s head as they stood on the upper deck in a stiff wind, watching Staten Island recede in the distance, or the wind was solely to blame, was up for debate. It landed in the ship’s wake, and Vincent took out a hankie and waved to it, as one would to a relative embarking on any ocean voyage. 

“I’m gonna miss that hat,” Rose said.

“No worries, hundreds more,” the Doctor explained.

“That’s nice.” Then Rose added, “You rocked it.”

Vincent was a little lost as to the meaning of these remarks, and she was also weary of trying to figure these two out. Plus it was time to give them some privacy. She told them she was going to catch some quick shut-eye mid-ship, and that she’d see them when they docked.

Standing at the rail, Rose and the Doctor watched a line of luxury ocean liners steam out towards the Atlantic, passing the ferry on its starboard side. The sky was beginning to turn light, allowing Rose to just make out the people who were teeming the decks. Soldiers, she realized--all in uniform.

“They’re taking the soldiers on a cruise?” she asked, confused by what she was seeing.

“Those are likely German ocean liners, seized when the war started. They were used as transport. This summer there would have been 10,000 soldiers being sent to die in France, every day. 10,000 a day, Rose. Still there they go, most of them happily.”

“Honor and duty,” Rose mused. “That’s why Dorothy Parker said her husband joined up.”

“I’m sick to death of honor and duty,” the Doctor snarled. “They’d have done better to stay home.” He paused, watching the long line of transports pass by, then confessed. “Truth is, I’m old, Rose. Far older than I’ve admitted. And--damaged. No, don’t argue with me, I feel damaged. At least, I have felt; but when you’re here…it's better...maybe, if you do want children, Rose, there are some places with genetic technologies that might give us a fighting chance, we could at least look into it, and if you wanted to take it, take the slow path, with me--”

“Doctor, I enjoy the runnin'. And kids, ha! You haven’t been around them much, if you think they’re any kinda ‘slow path’. Jury’s still out on that one. But one thing at a time, yeah?” She moved in front of him, and put her hands up over his hearts. “'Sides, there’s things generally come before babies.”

“Oh, like what?” asked the Doctor, leaning toward her.

“Well, to start with, there’s kissing.”

The Doctor reached and drew Rose to him, and kissed her. He kissed her hard, and well. Rose could not help but think of the kiss Rhett Butler had given Scarlett O’Hara in her mum’s favorite film. In fact, this kiss was so much like that kiss, exactly...

The Doctor pulled away for a moment, to look at her. “Like that?” he whispered, coming close again to nuzzle her nose. 

“Blimey, you seen Gone With the Wind?” Rose asked.

“Can’t imagine what you mean,” he answered. “Though I’ve realized tonight, 'You need kissing. You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how'.” Rose giggled, and wondered how long he’d been practicing this scene--but then she 'couldn’t think about that now', because he was kissing her again.

By the time they broke it off, catching their breath, the ferry was very near to docking.

The Doctor sighed and rested his cheek on the top of her head, gazing toward the rising sun. “I’ve been working out a scheme, just never mentioned it. A way to keep us out of harm’s way. I could ask the Tardis to keep me off the front lines, as it were. Take it easy. Do some beach-hopping, learn to cook. Always wanted to master the Phlogian souffle technique, souffles taller than me. Think of it as a Last of the Time Lords Early Retirement Plan.”

“Maybe we can finally make it to an actual concert!" Rose exclaimed. Then she frowned. "Hold up a mo’! Retirement? Don’t you dare! I’m not gonna let you start rottin’ away in a recliner, watchin’ daytime telly. I love helpin’ people, savin’ 'em. I don’t want to give it all up entirely. I know it can be dangerous, and I’m not suggestin’ we can’t tone it down a bit...”

“But Rose, we’d definitely find other things to do besides watching telly. The recliner idea is intriguing, for example. Reclines in so many positions--”

“Doctor!” She batted his arm but gave him another long kiss, that would have gone on longer, had the ferry’s whistle not sounded twice, startling them both.

“I’m sorry, Rose. You were right when you called me ‘positively Victorian’ yesterday. I'm well aware I’ve been driving us both ‘round the bend for weeks. I'll try not to be such a prig.”

“That was a joke--I didn’t really fancy playing cricket in the nude.”

“No, but you’ve got to understand, my people, when they were alive, were quite buttoned-up. Fancied myself a rebel, but really I was just arguin’ with them, shows how much they were in my head. Now they’re gone, in a way it’s even harder to shut it out. I’m a recovering Time Lord. Odd consequence, that.”

“That’s too bad,” Rose sympathised, “‘cause I’ve an urge to let my hands wander, almost as bad as yesterday. No, it's got worse, I think.” She began to tiptoe her fingers around his waist, and down his lower back.

The Doctor laughed. He leaned over, grasped her round her thighs and lifted her into the air, holding her against him.

“Well, go on!” he urged her. “I grant you full leave to molest me bum!”

“Still can’t reach it!” she exclaimed.

He put her back down and kissed her again, and whispered, “Later.”

The ferry's whistling woke Vincent, though barely. Both she and Rose were more than ready to roll into a bed, though for entirely different reasons. 

They walked wearily from the ferry to the subway, and saw that the store from the night before was, indeed, shut tight. “Closed Until Further Notice,” read the hastily scribbled sign in the window. 

Catching the uptown train, Vincent paid their fares, as promised, and they quietly sat down. Vincent closed her eyes again immediately.

Looking at her, Rose felt an idea take hold, and whispered to the Doctor, “Is the end of her life a--what do you call it when you can’t muck with it--a ‘fixed point', or is there somethin' you can do? That sad ending you said was coming, can you make it easier on her somehow?”

The Doctor sifted through several levels of information in his mind, running a handful of possible scenarios and watching their effects on the interconnected timelines. It was a risk, but a calculated risk. He gently shook Vincent’s shoulder. Having her attention, he spoke with her in a discreet and urgent tone. She gave him a quick hug when he had finished. Her stop was approaching.

Getting up, she came over and pulled Rose up into a long, passionate embrace. “I don’t know who you are,” she whispered, “what he just told me, can't be Communists.” She finished with a kiss to Rose’s cheek, and stood by the doors, looking back at her two strange friends. “You are quite the pair!” she summed up. “Please come look me up again, if you can.” The train arrived at her stop, the doors opened, and she was gone with only a quick backwards wave over her shoulder. 

“What did you tell her?” Rose asked.

“Oh, just a couple of general investment tips. Don't buy on margin, think long-term, spread your investments across sectors, how to determine if a bank is sound, that sort of thing." He paused and grinned. "Might have mentioned one or two specific stocks." Then more seriously, added, "Just have to hope she heeds my warning about going to all-cash positions, starting around June, 1929.”

There was a little ways yet until their stop at 42nd Street, plenty of time for more kissing. Rose glanced around at one point, realising they might be creating a scene. Most of their fellow passengers, however, were being good New Yorkers and were minding their own business. Rose did notice one bespectacled man in a suit scowling at them from across the car. The Doctor looked to see what had distracted her attention, and quickly stuck out his tongue at the man, before pulling Rose back in.

After arriving at 42nd and Broadway, Rose had never hurried as fast through a city street as she hurried now for the Tardis. The Doctor unlocked the doors then swept Rose up, and carried her across the threshold.

“Oi, I'm supposed to get a lot more dinin’ and dancin’ ‘fore that!” she objected.

“You’re too slow,” he explained. 

He began trotting through the Tardis with her, still in his arms.

“Where we goin’?” 

“My--room--” he panted, with the exertion.

Teasing him, she asked, “What for?”

Arriving at his door, he whispered something in her ear, grinning like a madman.

Rose squeaked out, “Oh. My. God.” 

He politely set her down on her feet and motioned for her to enter his bedroom.

She turned around and walked backwards, pulling off her cape and hurling it to the floor, beckoning him towards his own bed. “Betcha won’t be sportin' that wicked grin thirty minutes from now,” she challenged. 

“You are going to lose that bet,” he replied, and stepping in after her, firmly kicked the door shut behind him without looking back.

 

@@@

 

Rose ate the last of her egg-drenched toast, and tackled one of the wonderfully greasy sausages the Doctor had put in their fry-up.

“Breakfast for dinner, can’t beat it,” he had said when he suggested it. He refused her offer of help, telling her she should have a shower instead, while he saw to things in the galley. 

She had asked what he was hinting at, sniffing her armpits, which had made him almost start up again when he wanted to smell, too, and she had to practically use Judo to get away from him, taking refuge in the ensuite. “Go cook!” she had to yell at him through the bathroom door, as he tried to follow her, rattling the handle and giggling.

Eating from trays arranged across the Doctor’s enormous four-poster bed, Rose felt completely rested, and content, and clean, from the shower, and… loved. That was the feeling. Completely loved.

He washed down the last of his bacon (he’d made himself a dozen slices) with a long gulp of tea, and rested his back against the headboard, sated and dreamy. “Ever heard the myth of Cupid & Psyche?” he asked.

“Mmmm-mmm,” Rose replied, still chewing.

“Done with your bacon?” he asked, stealing her last piece from her plate.

“Mmph!” she tried to protest, but it was hard to speak with her mouth full.

“Don’t drip grease, Rose,” he chided, and napkinned off a crumb of sausage that had fallen to the top of her left breast. He spoke as he dabbed at it. “To summarize: supernatural boy gets nicked by his own arrow and falls in love with mortal girl. Naturally, mortal girl falls in love with supernatural boy.”

“Naturally,” Rose agreed, swallowing and raising an eyebrow.

“They have issues, other people get involved, everyone has an opinion, almost doesn’t work out. Then supernatural boy has the bright idea to make mortal girl immortal, and, bingo!, problem solved, they live happily ever after.”

“You’re not supernatural,” Rose reminded him.

“No, and I’m not immortal, either, but I was thinking--there are technologies out there that could help you live far longer than you would on your own. Whilst we were looking into the baby thing, we could also ask about them--”

“Hold on, we’re not getting out of bed yet, are we?” she objected.

“How much more of this can you take?” he asked, with exaggerated concern.

“Try me, supernatural boy. This Tardis was meant as a research vessel, right?”

He grinned, and reaching over to his nightstand, fished up his glasses and donned them.

“Ooo! Brainy specs, that’s not fair,” Rose exclaimed. “Never get around to writin’ the lab report, that way. But seriously, Doctor,” she asked, “let’s just take it one thing at a time, yeah? Lots to discuss, I know, but I’m not worryin’ about any of it now.”

“Sorry, I’m a planner. That’s what I do, I plan,” he said, sincerely.

Rose snorted.

“Really, Rose, landing on the wrong planets in the wrong centuries aside, it’s my instinct to try and manage things. Very Time Lord. It’s what we do. Did. This here,” he explained, “is me winging it. Don’t know why I didn’t think of this ages ago, though, winging it,” he added, kissing her neck. Sniffing, he said, "You smell like bacon.”

Rose pushed him away and said, “Don't you think you’ve had enough bacon?” She moved their finished trays off the bed, and cuddled up next to him.

He contemplated his bedroom ceiling, which twinkled with a rendition of his old stellar neighborhood, the Seven Systems. “As the last living specimen of my species--”

“You’re a specimen, all right,” Rose agreed, and grabbed for a part of his anatomy.

“Unhand me,” he scolded. “As I was saying, as the last of the Time Lords, whatever I do now is what all Time Lords do, if you get my meaning. I want to wing it from now on, and do it with you, Rose.”

Rose snickered. “You said do it.” She elbowed him.

“Ow!” he complained, and held his side in mock agony.

Rose looked up at his ceiling, too, and asked, “So what made you finally crack? Been tryin’ to get a snog, and a shag, out of you for weeks, never got anywhere. Was it the alien love potion? That would’ve worked on most blokes, you know, me talkin’ dirty and gettin’ all grabby--but maybe that scared you off.”

“Not really,” he protested.

“Oh, come off it,” she countered. “It was like watchin' a baby wildebeest on Natural World, with lions after it.”

“Well, yes, I suppose it was a little off-putting then, but now,” he turned and gave her his sincerest face, “you’re welcome to chase me down and pounce upon me, as you please.”

“What if I want to devour you?” She dove under the covers.

“Well, mmm, when you mean it that way, yes, just like that, yes. This, winging it, definitely reconciling to the idea.”

Rose crawled up him and popped her head out from the duvet.

“The Tardis had a hand in it, too, didn’t she? Gettin’ us all dressed up, takin’ us to meet Vincent.” Rose found somewhere for her hand to wander.

“Stop, eek, that tickles, gah, stop that!” he said, moving quickly to straddle her, capturing both of her wrists in his hands. “We know the Tardis has a bad habit of ignoring my coordinates, but she inevitably brings me where Ineed to go.” He released her wrists. “You promise to behave?”

“No,” Rose replied, but she stopped molesting him, for the moment.

The Doctor continued. “You know, Vincent had some words with me, about my attitude, while you were drooling on my tuxedo.”

“Ah, so Vincent made you do it! Oi, I don’t drool!” she added, smacking his leg.

“Stop assaulting me, woman! Really, it was a poem by Catullus that made me realize what a coward I was for not kissing you yet. Lots of kissing in Catullus. Vincent recited it to me, but that’s when you were drooling.” He artfully fended off an another slap, and continued. “Though Catullus is an odd choice for romantic inspiration. Randy bugger, true pervert, really, would fornicate with just about anyone he was sober enough to run down--Jack would love him, should introduce them sometime. If you ever learn to read Latin, Rose, I’m telling you, Catullus’ll make your eyelashes blush. Accidentally walked off with one of his napkins, after a party. Read later he’d blamed it on some chap named Asinius Marrucinus, been meaning to return it…”

“Hmmm,” Rose asked dreamily, “what did you say ‘bout kissin’?

The Doctor leaned down and kissed her. Sweetly at first, but it started to ramp up in its intensity. He moved down to rest on his forearms, his body pressed along the length of hers.

Breathlessly, Rose broke off to mutter, “I think it was simply the birds and the bees that made you do it--all that pent up Time Lord passion.”

The Doctor began moving slowly atop her, beginning another encore to the original performance that had started, when was it? About thirty hours ago, at this point. 

“Yes,” he whispered, kissing her neck and moving to nibble on one of her ear lobes, “but really I didn’t need much provocation. Bit like falling down stairs--boy loves pretty girl, girl loves him back.”

“So,” Rose breathed out, “it wasn’t the alien love potion, the Tardis, poetry or Mother Nature that made you do it--”

“No, Rose, I just wanted to. Now nothing could make me stop…”

The Tardis hadn’t been given any coordinates, and as her passengers did, indeed, seem intent on not stopping their new activities any time soon, she resigned herself to spinning quietly and began a list of non-lethal, attractive places where she had always wanted to try materializing.

 

❦❦


	6. Postscript

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edna St. Vincent Millay publishes a poem. A short postscript.

Postscript

Vincent was pleased with the final edit of Recuerdo, and she was glad to have finished it so far ahead of schedule. Now she had submitted all her promised work for Poetry Magazine through its May issue. More time for the theater, and for gadding about. Things were heating up in New York, now that the war was over. Everyone was quite gay, and yes, very merry!

She never saw the Doctor or Rose again. No one had heard of them, when she inquired. They would forever remain a bit of a mystery to her. She picked up the final galley proofs she'd been sent, and looked out the window, at the snow that had fallen on the city during the night. She wished them well, wherever they were. "Here's to you, my mysterious lovers!" she said, and began to read aloud:

Recuerdo, by Edna St. Vincent Millay

We were very tired, we were very merry–  
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.  
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable–  
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,  
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;  
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry–  
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;  
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,  
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;  
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,  
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,  
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.  
We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,  
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;  
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,  
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.


End file.
